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ROGER   HUNT.     A  Novel.     i6mo,  $1.25. 
RACHEL    ARMSTRONG;  OR,   LOVE   AND  THE- 

OLOGY.    A  Novel,     izmo,  $1.50;  paper  covers, 

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A  GIRL  GRADUATE.    A  Novel,     izmo,  $1.50. 


HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  AND  COMPANY, 
BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK. 


ROGER   HUNT 


BY 


CELIA   PARKER   WOOLLEY 

AUTHOR  OF  "RACHEL  ARMSTRONG;  OR,  LOVE  AND  THEOLOGY," 
"A  GIRL  GRADUATE,"  ETC. 


But  God  said, 
I  will  have  a  purer  gift ; 
There  is  smoke  in  the  flame. 
EMERSON 


BOSTON  AND   NEW  YORK 
HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  AND   COMPANY 
Cbe  RtuersiDe  press,  Cambrt&ge 


Copyright,  1892, 
BY  CELIA  PARKER   WOOLLEY. 

All  rights  reserved. 


The  Riverside  Press,  Cambridge,  Mass.,  U.  8.  A. 
Electrotyped  and  Printed  by  H.  O.  Houghton  &  Co. 


PS 


To 
J.   H.   W. 


ROGER  HUNT. 


I. 

IT  was  at  the  close  of  a  dull  November  day, 
with  low-hanging  skies  and  naked  tree-branches 
stretched  mournfully  up  to  meet  them.  There  was 
a  touch  of  winter  chill  in  the  air.  A  few  thin 
streaks  of  red  in  the  west  failed  either  to  cheer  or 
warm  the  scene,  though  bringing  into  stronger  re- 
lief two  figures,  a  man's  and  a  woman's,  walking 
down  the  long  empty  vista  of  M  Street  in  the  uni- 
versity town  of  Xenophon. 

The  man  kept  close  to  his  companion's  side,  and 
talked  in  a  low,  hurried  strain;  while  she,  with 
downcast  eyes  and  a  strangely  troubled  face,  lis- 
tened. She  was  nearly  as  tall  as  he,  with  slender 
figure  that  had  a  look  of  fragility,  heightened  by 
the  way  in  which  she  wore  her  shawl,  wrapped 
closely  about  her  and  held  in  place  with  tightly- 
clasped  hands.  Her  face  had  a  refined  and  rather 
noble  expression,  but  wore  just  now  a  pinched 
look  of  care,  while  the  large  melancholy  eyes  be- 
spoke depths  of  feeling  and  mental  unrest  below. 
The  manner  and  attitude  of  the  two  showed  that 


2  ROGER  HUNT. 

intent  preoccupation  in  themselves  seen  in  avowed 
lovers. 

They  halted  before  one  of  the  frame  houses 
standing  back  from  the  street,  but  lingered  at  the 
gate.  The  man  talked  on  eagerly,  almost  angrily, 
never  turning  his  strong,  clear  gaze  from  his  com- 
panion, whose  face  still  wore  a  look  of  struggling 
doubt  and  longing. 

"Oh,  I  dare  not,"  she  exclaimed,  as  he  paused  at 
last  for  her  to  speak,  and  with  a  long  shuddering 
sigh.  A  dark  look  of  disappointment  swept  over 
his  face,  and  he  compressed  his  lips. 

"Do  not  be  angry  with  me,"  she  pleaded,  laying 
her  hand  on  his  arm.  He  covered  it  with  his  own, 
and  turned  his  eyes  upon  her  with  a  look  of  tender, 
but  sad  upbraiding,  before  which  her  own  wavered 
and  fell. 

"I  can  say  no  more,"  he  said  mournfully,  but 
with  a  touch  of  impatience.  "After  all,  it  is  not 
a  thing  any  word  of  mine  should  decide.  Only 
your  feeling  can  do  that." 

"If  it  were  only  that!  "  The  words  were  rather 
breathed  than  spoken.  A  flash  of  triumph  lighted 
his  face.  "Very  well,  then."  He  clasped  her 
hand  closer.  Its  touch  was  warm  and  tender,  but 
masterful.  All  her  being  thrilled  to  it,  at  the 
same  time  that  her  heart  was  clutched  with  a  deadly 
chill.  She  could  not  take  her  eyes  from  his,  which 
looked  both  absolute  devotion  to  and  an  imploring 
fear  of  him ;  but  if  the  latter  touched  him,  it  was 
not  with  pity  for  her. 


ROGER  HUNT.  3 

"You  talk  of  'right,'"  lie  began  again,  and* 
speaking  with  the  enforced  patience  we  use  with  a 
child  who  has  heard  our  reasons  for  exacting  his 
obedience  many  times.  "You  and  I  believe  that 
right  is  determined  by  inward  feeling  and  convic- 
tion, do  we  not?" 

She  looked  at  him  with  the  same  eyes  of  worship- 
ful pleading,  while  the  subtle  use  of  the  words, 
"You  and  I,"  made  her  flush  and  tremble. 

"Then  we  accept  the  responsibility  of  an  action 
when  we  have  admitted  the  wish  to  perform  it. 
You  admit  the  wish  to  serve  me?"  She  did  not 
answer  in  words,  only  looked  at  him.  He  knew 
she  would  die  for  him. 

"And  you  know  my  need  of  you."  His  voice 
dropped  here,  and  he  released  her  hand.  A  more 
delicate  man  would  have  refrained  from  an  argu- 
ment like  the  last;  but  Roger  Hunt,  though  pos- 
sessing an  unusually  refined  and  sensitive  nature, 
reaching  to  fastidiousness  in  matters  of  personal 
taste  and  habit,  often  showed  a  failing  insight  in 
other  matters  that  bordered  on  dullness. 

Roger  Hunt  belonged  to  that  fanatical  order  of 
mind  which  is  never  so  sure  it  is  right  as  when  it  is 
standing  alone.  He  had  all  a  martyr's  courage 
with  nothing  of  the  martyr's  meekness ;  would  have 
submitted  to  burn  at  the  stake  for  opinion's  sake, 
but  would  have  made  the  fire-tender  some  trouble. 
The  feeling  of  others  toward  him  generally  went 
to  one  or  the  other  extreme  of  strong  affection  and 
sympathy,  or  downright  dislike  and  suspicion.  He 


4  ROGER  HUNT. 

'was  not  a  popular  man,  though  capable  of  excit- 
ing the  warm,  even  partisan  attachment  of  a  few. 
His  friends  praised  his  purity  of  purpose,  his  cour- 
age and  devotion  to  principle,  while  his  critics 
pronounced  him  arbitrary,  unfeeling,  and  petty. 
He  was  better  liked  by  the  opposite  sex  than  by 
his  own,  his  virtues  being  such  as  men  respected 
without  trying  to  emulate,  his  faults  of  a  kind  only 
women  would  submit  to.  The  woman  before  him 
recognized  his  faults,  but  blamed  him  for  them 
scarcely  more  than  she  did  for  his  defective  eye- 
sight. He  suffered  from  what  is  known  in  techni- 
cal phrase  as  hypermetropia,  which  he  sometimes 
wore  spectacles  to  correct.  He  could  see  a  distant 
church  steeple  very  well,  but  was  continually 
stumbling  over  the  nearest  obstacle  in  his  path. 

Though  he  would  have  stoutly  denied  it  himself, 
feeling,  overlaid  with  a  mass  of  argument,  such  as 
he  was  now  employing  with  the  woman  at  his  side, 
ruled  all  his  conduct.  He  was  a  man  of  keen  and 
brilliant  intellect,  which  he  used  as  remorselessly  at 
times  as  a  physical  giant  does  his  superior  muscular 
strength.  He  had  a  gift  at  dialectical  discourse, 
which  his  equals  often  hesitated  to  encounter,  but 
which  rendered  the  one  he  was  now  addressing 
as  helpless  as  a  child.  Eoger  Hunt  loved  Eleanor 
Thaxter  with  the  intensity  of  a  strong  and  impetu- 
ous nature  bent  on  the  fulfillment  of  its  own  de- 
sires, —  loved  her  the  more  because  of  her  known 
love  for  himself ;  for  he  was  not  the  man  to  suffer 
from  an  unrequited  attachment.  The  love  that 


EOGEB  HUNT.  5 

seeks  only  to  give  was  typified  in  the  woman  who 
stood  listening  to  him,  there  in  the  autumn  twilight, 
her  soul  in  her  eyes,  longing  to  believe  wholly  and 
only  in  him. 

"What  is  it  we  lose?"  he  asked  at  length,  with 
another  touch  of  impatience.  "What  is  it  any- 
body loses?" 

"Oh,  if  I  could  be  sure  of  that!  "  she  replied  in 
trembling  tones.  "  If  there  were  only  ourselves  to 
think  about! " 

"Come  now,"  he  said,  putting  a  restraint  upon 
himself.  "Who  else  is  there  to  think  about?  On 
one  side  a  churl  of  a  brother,"  glancing  towards  the 
house  she  was  about  to  enter,  "who  grudges  the 
bread  his  sister  eats."  She  made  a  deprecatory 
motion  of  the  hand,  but  he  would  not  heed  her. 
"On  the  other,  a  woman  at  the  inebriate  hospital 
who  bears  my  name,  and,  in  the  place  I  call  home," 
with  bitter  emphasis,  "her  ill-tempered  sister,  who 
has  brought  up  my  boy  to  fear  and  distrust  his 
father." 

She  trembled  and  turned  pale  at  this  pitiless 
revelation  of  affairs  she  so  well  understood  before. 

"Dearest,"  he  went  on  in  altered  tone,  bend- 
ing near  until  his  face  almost  touched  hers,  "if  I 
meant  to  wrong  or  injure  any  one  of  them,  if  I  did 
not  mean  to  make  ample  provision  for  each  and  all, 
if  I  did  not  know  my  presence  was  as  hateful  to 
them  as  theirs  to  me  — -  What  is  it  any  one  will 
lose?  "  he  repeated  impetuously. 

"Oh,  I  know,  I  know,"  she  murmured.      "You 


6  EOGER  HUNT. 

are  wiser  than  I.  You  have  thought  deeply  on  all 
these  subjects;  I  try  to  understand,  but"  —a  long 
tremulous  sigh  escaped  her.  "And  —  and  how 
can  you  say  no  one  will  lose?"  she  began  again, 
speaking  with  difficulty.  "There  is  the  child. 
Surely  he  will  lose  "  —  She  ended  in  painful  em- 
barrassment, which  her  companion  did  not  seem  to 
share  in  the  least,  though  he  kept  silent  for  a  space, 
bending  accusing  eyes  on  her. 

"No,  it  is  you  who  are  wise,"  he  said  in  a  mourn- 
ful tone,  "very  wise,  very  safe,  and  careful."  Her 
thin  cheek  flushed. 

"It  is  too  much,"  he  exclaimed,  "too  much  to 
expect  of  any  woman.  I  had  begun  to  think  there 
was  one  who  understood  the  essential  values  of 
things,  who  could  distinguish  between  the  merely 
conventional  and  that  which  is  everlastingly  right 
and  true,  who  had  some  power  of  just  discrimina- 
tion." He  paused  abruptly.  She  flushed  again, 
and  deeper,  but  this  time  with  less  pain  at  the  overt 
reproach  in  his  words  than  pride  in  their  implied 
praise.  No  woman  willingly  submits  to  see  herself 
lowered  in  the  eyes  of  the  man  she  cares  for,  either 
as  friend  or  lover,  even  when  her  own  judgment 
sustains  her. 

Eleanor  Thaxter's  acquaintance  with  Roger 
Hunt  had  been  the  supreme  event  in  a  dry  and  col- 
orless existence.  The  knowledge  that  he  loved  her, 
was  dependent  on  her  for  happiness,  had  not  only 
brought  an  intoxicating  delight,  but  had  aroused 
the  holier  passion  of  self-sacrifice,  which  in  such 


ROGER  HUNT.  7 

women  is  part  of  love.  Roger's  words  rebuked, 
but  also  uplifted  her ;  and  though  an  unconvinced 
judgment  still  lay  like  a  stone  in  her  breast,  her 
heart  leaped  forward  in  the  wish  to  be  all  that  he 
required.  She  stood  flushing  and  trembling  be- 
fore him. 

"  I  shall  not  try  to  answer  your  question  about 
the  child,"  he  said,  coming  bluntly  back  to  this 
point.  "If  you  think  there's  such  a  lot  of  pre- 
cious fatherhood  going  to  waste  in  me,  you  had  bet- 
ter visit  me  in  my  home  some  time.  Send  me  back 
there  if  you  like,  if  that  suits  your  woman's  notion 
of  things  better ;  but  I  tell  you,  you  little  know  the 
living  hell  the  place  is  to  me,  nor  how  I  am  grow- 
ing the  fitter  devil  to  live  in  it  every  day." 

This  outburst  frightened  her  a  little,  and  she 
tried  to  quiet  him. 

"A  man  may  correct  any  other  mistake,"  he 
went  on  passionately,  "may  repair  his  unformed 
judgment  on  every  other  point  but  this  one,  in 
which  his  honor  and  happiness  are  most  concerned. 
A  mere  boy  is  fooled  by  a  pretty  face,  and  you 
tell  him  all  his  hopes  of  happiness  are  to  be  meas- 
ured by  that  fact.  You  tell  me  to  bear  things  I 
think  it  wicked  cowardice  to  bear.  I  suffer  the 
pangs  of  the  damned,  and  grovel  in  shame  every 
day  anew,  and  you  tell  me  I  have  brought  it  on 
myself."  She  tried  to  stop  him,  but  could  not. 
"Then  I  put  my  heart,  torn  and  bleeding,  into 
your  hands,  which  might  make  it  well  and  whole 
again ;  yet  you  can  stand  and  hesitate,  because  of 


8  ROGER  HUNT. 

a  lot  of  human  donkeys,  who  will  forget  our  exist- 
ence in  three  days.  Why  should  we  care  what 
people  will  say?  What  is  the  world  and  its  opin- 
ion to  us?  Less  than  the  sound  of  thunder  in  a 
distant  planet." 

"Roger,  Roger,  I  cannot  bear  it !  "  Her  voice 
broke  through  his  whirling  talk  like  a  distressed 
cry.  "It  is  not  of  myself  I  think.  Why  should 
I  care  for  myself  ?  It  is  of  you.  Can  I  help  you 
do  yourself  a  wrong?  Was  my  love  meant  for 
that?  I  would  give  my  life  to  make  you  happy !  " 

"Give  me  yourself!  "  The  words  were  at  once 
imperious  and  tender.  His  passionate  force  was 
gaining  ground.  The  little  strength  she  had  sum- 
moned to  resist  him  was  spending  itself  fast.  Her 
face  was  raised  to  his  in  piteous  appeal.  His  deep 
glowing  eyes  burned  through  the  growing  dusk. 
She  had  felt  at  times  those  eyes  had  power  to  draw 
her  soul  from  her  body.  He  bent  nearer  to  her. 
"I  have  said  they  would  lose  nothing,"  he  began 
again  in  a  low  voice.  "  That  is  true ;  but  we  — 
what  is  it  we  shall  not  gain?  Think  what  it  will 
be  to  me,  you  strong,  sweet  woman  who  love  me 
so !  A  free  life,  time  and  the  will  to  work ;  —  with 
you,  my  best  helper,  the  only  being  in  the  world 
who  understands  me,  you  always  at  my  side. 
Misery  and  shame  were  driving  me  mad  when  I 
met  you;  I  was  turning  into  a  fiend.  You  came, 
and  had  only  looked  at  me  once,  with  those  dear, 
pitying  eyes,  when  I  knew  all  hope  was  not  over, 
even  for  me.  You  were  my  good  angel,  sent  to  re- 


ROGER  HUNT.  9 

deem  and  restore  me  I  My  heart  spoke  the  words 
at  once.  You  knew  it !  There  was  but  one  feel- 
ing between  us.  We  understood  each  other  as 
well  at  that  moment  as  we  do  now.  Do  you  think 
such  things  mean  nothing?  " 

His  wild  impassioned  words  melted  and  fright- 
ened her  at  once.  Her  fears  and  agitation  in- 
creased every  moment,  and  she  broke  into  tears, 
trembling  and  clinging  to  him. 

"You  speak  of  other  people's  rights,"  he  went 
on!  " Has  love  like  ours  no  rights ?  Do  you  dare 
admit  your  love  for  me,  and  then  leave  me,  tenfold 
more  desolate  and  despairing  than  before?  We 
love  each  other.  Oh,  my  darling,  think  of  nothing 
but  this,  of  this  great  blessed  love  that  has  come 
to  us!  Put  every  other  thought  away!  Let  us 
leave  lies  and  misery  and  the  preaching  of  fools 
behind  us." 

She  could  not  look  into  his  face,  it  was  so  near, 
and  shut  her  eyes  in  an  excess  of  trembling  fear 
and  happiness,  that  might  have  overpowered  her 
had  he  not  caught  and  held  her  in  his  arms,  safe 
in  the  descending  dark.  She  felt  his  kisses  on 
her  cheek  and  lips,  heard  his  passionate  words  of 
devotion,  caught  a  whisper  of  advice  and  caution, 
and  felt  herself  released.  He  was  gone.  The 
sound  of  his  footsteps  grew  fainter  in  the  distance, 
but  carried  a  ring  of  victory.  Dizzily,  like  one  in 
a  dream,  she  ascended  the  path  to  the  house.  She 
had  given  no  word  of  promise,  but  she  knew  what 
she  was  going  to  do.  Mind  and  sense  were  held 


10  EOGEE  RUNT. 

in  the  grasp  of  a  will  she  had  no  further  strength 
to  resist.  She  could  only  pray,  in  mercy  for  her- 
self, that  this  feeling  of  dumb  unaccountability 
might  last  until  the  irrevocable  step  had  been 
taken. 


II. 

ROGER  HUNT'S  home  was  a  long  distance  from 
M  Street  in  a  fashionable  quarter  of  the  city.  It 
was  a  large  and  handsome  residence,  but  for  the 
past  two  years  had  worn  the  forbidding  look  a 
house  has  when  closed  to  visitors,  and  only  partially 
used. 

He  was  late.  Admitting  himself  with  a  night- 
key,  he  stepped  into  the  dimly-lighted  hall,  venting 
an  exclamation  of  impatience  over  the  darkness, 
and  turned  the  gas  jet,  held  by  a  bronze  naiad 
perched  in  airy  attire  on  the  newel  post,  to  full 
head  ;  then  passed  on  into  the  dining-room,  where 
his  sister-in-law  and  boy  sat  at  table. 

The  two  looked  at  him  without  a  word  as  he  took 
his  place,  and  until  the  servant  in  waiting  had 
placed  the  soup  before  him  and  retired,  when  his 
sister-in-law  spoke :  — 

"We  waited  an  hour,"  she  said,  regarding  him 
gloomily  from  behind  the  tea-urn.  "Children 
ought  not  to  eat  so  late." 

"I  have  told  you  never  to  wait  for  me,"  was  the 
reply.  Another  silence,  broken  only  by  an  occa- 
sional word  between  the  boy  and  his  aunt,  followed 
and  lasted  throughout  the  meal,  Roger  taking  the 
evening  paper  from  his  pocket  and  reading  from  it 


12  BOGEB  HUNT. 

between  courses.  When  he  had  finished,  the  three 
arose,  and  his  sister-in-law  spoke  again. 

"Are  you  going  out  this  evening?  "  she  asked,  in 
the  same  constrained  manner  as  before. 

"I  am  not." 

"Then  I  should  like  to  attend  the  evening  meet- 
ing. Children  ought  not  to  be  left  with  servants." 
Miss  Watson  never  missed  a  chance  of  formulating 
her  principles. 

"You  can  go,"  said  Roger,  cutting  her  short; 
and  turning  away  he  passed  from  the  room  into  the 
library  on  the  other  side  of  the  hall. 

The  boy  followed  his  aunt  upstairs,  watching  her 
with  a  listless  air  as  she  put  on  her  bonnet  and 
cloak,  heavily  trimmed  with  crape  for  a  father  who 
had  been  dead  seven  years.  He  accompanied  her 
down  again,  to  the  outer  door,  where  he  received 
her  parting  instructions  about  bed-time.  When 
the  door  closed  behind  her,  he  went  back  into  the 
dining-room,  the  only  lighted  room  in  the  house, 
except  the  library. 

His  aunt  had  not  kissed  him  good-night,  but  he 
had  learned  long  since  to  dispense  with  attentions 
of  this  kind.  He  knew  she  loved  him,  and  though 
she  was  very  strict  with  him,  in  his  strange,  unchild- 
like  fashion,  he  loved  her.  Towards  his  father 
the  boy's  feeling  was  one  of  mingled  curiosity  and 
indifference.  He  knew  him  as  a  man  of  abstracted 
looks  and  ways,  and  of  independent  habits  tlrat 
often  set  the  entire  household  awry ;  who  seemed  to 
remember  his  child's  existence  only  at  intervals, 


ROGER  HUNT.  13 

at  which  times  he  gave  him  a  good  deal  of  pocket- 
money,  and  even  sometimes  tried  to  romp  and  play 
with  him ;  but  he  did  this  in  an  awkward  way  that 
made  the  boy  uncomfortable,  so  that  he  liked  bet- 
ter to  be  forgotten  and  unnoticed. 

Roger  Hunt  was  not  wholly  to  blame  that  he 
had  so  little  power  to  win  his  child's  confidence. 
There  was  as  little  mental  as  physical  likeness  be- 
tween them,  the  boy  bearing  a  marked  resemblance 
to  his  mother's  family,  so  that  it  always  pained  and 
often  displeased  his  father  merely  to  look  at  him. 
Roger  had  not  the  nature  which  enters  readily  into 
the  needs  of  others.  He  cared  little  for  children, 
any  way,  though  he  would  have  been  both  shocked 
and  offended  at  the  thought  that  such  a  feeling 
could  extend  to  his  own  son.  The  circumstances  of 
his  marriage  have  already  been  partly  described 
in  the  words  he  let  fall  to  Eleanor  Thaxter. 

While  still  in  college  he  had  fallen  under  the 
spell  of  one  of  those  youthful  infatuations  which 
pass  for  love.  Annie  Watson  was  the  youngest 
child  of  a  stern  Puritanic  household,  but  who  in- 
herited none  of  the  pious  and  orderly  instincts  of 
the  family.  Her  unruly  disposition  began  to  as- 
sert itself  from  the  first,  and  she  was  regarded 
as  a  moral  alien  almost  from  babyhood.  At  the 
boarding-school  in  Xenophon,  where  Roger  first 
met  her,  she  was  a  participant  in  every  piece  of 
mischief  going  on,  holding  in  open  ridicule  the 
stiff,  old-fashioned  discipline  on  which  the  school 
prided  itself.  To  Roger's  callow  fancy,  himself 


14  ROGER  HUNT, 

no  easy  subject  of  rule,  this  lawlessness,  covered 
with  girlish  charm  and  grace,  looked  like  moral 
independence;  and  nothing  could  have  persuaded 
him  then  that  he  had  not  found  his  true  spiritual 
mate.  They  were  married  against  the  advice  of 
all  of  his  friends  and  the  direct  command  of  her 
father.  A  month  had  scarcely  passed  when  Roger 
discovered  his  terrible  mistake.  Life,  that  looked 
so  fair  and  promising,  lay  like  a  shattered  vase  at 
his  feet.  He  found  himself  bound  for  life  to  a 
vain  and  conscienceless  creature  who  had  married 
him  partly  through  a  spirit  of  mischievous  defiance, 
partly  through  flattered  self-love  at  being  sought 
by  one  so  manifestly  her  superior,  but  chiefly  for 
the  reputed  fortune  he  was  to  inherit  from  a  bach- 
elor uncle.  This  fortune  came  into  their  posses- 
sion two  years  after  their  marriage,  and  was  the 
means  of  completing  Roger's  domestic  ruin.  Had 
he  followed  his  own  wish,  he  would  have  continued 
to  live  in  the  same  quiet  fashion  as  before ;  but  his 
wife  would  submit  to  no  such  tame  disposition  of 
affairs,  and  to  please  her  he  fitted  out  a  fashionable 
establishment  on  one  of  the  avenues.  The  young 
wife  plunged  into  social  life,  the  husband  shut  him- 
self in  his  library,  a  moody  and  bitterly-disap- 
pointed man. 

Annie  Hunt,  however,  had  neither  the  talent 
nor  force  of  character  to  become  a  leader  in  the 
gay  world  whose  honors  she  coveted.  Craving 
always  some  fresh  excitement,  intent  only  on  the 
moment's  gratification,  her  easy  nature  yielded 


ROGER  HUNT.  15 

readily  to  temptation,  and  soon  she  was  floating 
rapidly  down  the  current  of  social  folly  and  excess. 
One  form  of  this  dissipation  began  to  excite  the 
whispered  comment  of  their  friends  long  before  it 
became  known  to  Roger,  immersed  in  his  books, 
and  living  only  in  formal  union  with  his  wife. 
When  he  discovered  it,  his  horror  and  shame  knew 
no  bounds.  He  pleaded,  he  threatened,  he  stormed. 
There  were  tears  and  promised  amendment  on  the 
frightened  wife's  side,  followed  by  weak  attempts 
at  reform;  but  month  by  month  the  disgusting 
evil  grew,  until  it  became  an  open  scandal,  and  he 
was  forced  to  send  her  away  from  home.  A 
hypothetical  cure  was  effected,  which  on  a  return 
to  the  old  scenes  soon  ended  in  a  relapse,  followed 
by  another  banishment ;  while  Roger  Hunt,  as  he 
had  said  to  Eleanor,  groveled  in  shame  and  could 
hardly  look  his  fellow-creatures  in  the  face.  Since 
then,  poor,  wrecked  Annie  Hunt,  a  creature  all 
instinct  and  weak  desire,  had  spent  her  time  alter- 
nately in  the  Asylum  and  at  her  home,  having  now 
been  an  inmate  of  the  Asylum  eight  months,  with 
her  name  on  the  list  of  incurables.  It  was  a  sub- 
ject of  wondering  comment  among  his  friends  that 
Roger  had  sought  no  legal  redress  for  his  suffer- 
ings, some  censuring  his  conduct  in  this  respect, 
others  praising  it ;  but  to  a  nature  like  his,  open 
defiance  expresses  the  highest  courage.  Since  it 
was  law  that  held  him  in  bondage,  he  woidd  not 
condescend  to  appeal  to  it  for  aid ;  he  would  rather 
resist  and  defeat  it.  He  asked  nothing  at  the 


16  ROGER  HUNT. 

hands  of  that  glittering  abstraction,  called  Society, 
which  had  so  injured  him,  as  he  conceived;  he 
repudiated  it  instead. 

Some  degree  of  self -extinction  is  involved  in  all 
forms  of  compromise,  and  Roger  Hunt  did  not 
mean  to  be  extinguished.  On  the  contrary,  he  was 
in  the  mood  to  assert  himself  more  distinctly  than 
before.  He  had  long  since  ceased  to  think  of  his 
wife  as  a  responsible  creature,  yet  he  felt  no  sen- 
timent of  pity  save  for  himself,  the  victim  of  an 
egregious  and  mortifying  blunder.  His  love  for 
her  dead,  he  was  led  by  an  insidious  kind  of  rea- 
soning to  persuade  himself  that  all  feeling  of  re- 
sponsibility in  that  direction  was  annulled,  save 
that  of  her  material  support,  which  was  easy  to 
extend.  She  was  his  and  a  part  of  him  no  longer, 
he  proudly  declared;  and  he  put  her  as  far  away 
as  possible  in  his  thoughts.  His  soul  rebelled 
at  the  thought  that  his  entire  future  must  be  reg- 
ulated by  this  heedless  mistake  of  the  past.  He 
was  not  yet  thirty,  with  life  spread  before  him 
like  a  bounteous  feast,  tempting  sense,  imagination, 
and  the  intellect  alike,  yet  must  consent  to  repress 
all  feeling,  deny  himself  all  exercise  of  a  man's 
natural  instincts  and  desires,  pass  his  days  like 
an  anchorite  in  a  desert,  supported  neither  by 
the  anchorite's  faith  or  conviction  of  duty.  The 
thought  was  monstrous. 

Sympathy  for  Roger  Hunt's  position  could  not 
but  be  felt  even  by  those  who  liked  him  least,  and 
was  heightened  in  his  friends'  minds  by  their  know- 


ROGER  HUNT.  17 

ledge  of  the  additional  vexations  —  of  a  small  gnat- 
like  order,  but  the  more  unbearable  to  one  of  his 
disposition  —  he  suffered  in  the  presence  of  a 
woman  like  Sarah  Watson  in  his  house,  his  com- 
plete moral  aiitipode. 

Miss  Watson  had  given  up  a  life  of  useful  inde- 
pendence to  assume  her  present  position.  She 
could  perform  a  difficult  duty  if  need  be,  but  with- 
out cheerfulness  or  grace.  She  had  many  excellent 
traits,  but  they  were  combined  with  a  temperament 
that  made  all  her  virtues  appear  exasperating 
faults.  She  had  few  overt  faults,  however,  unless 
mental  narrowness  and  a  certain  fierce  pride  of 
character  be  counted  such.  She  was  one  of  those 
whom  contact  with  wrong  -  doing  always  hardens 
more  than  it  enlightens.  She  did  not  try  to  un- 
derstand the  wicked  behavior  of  people,  only  feared 
and  condemned  it.  The  thought  of  her  sister,  of 
whom  she  had  always  disapproved,  aroused  scarcely 
any  other  feeling  than  one  of  self -injury. 

In  this  she  was  like  Roger,  yet  the  likeness 
proved  no  bond  of  union  between  them.  The  in- 
tense, exacting  nature  of  each  took  an  instant,  yet 
deep-rooted  dislike  of  the  other.  The  two  had 
lived  together  under  one  roof  in  forced  mutual  tol- 
erance for  three  years,  bound  together  only  by 
their  common  deep  misfortune.  Days  often  passed 
with  scarcely  the  exchange  of  a  word,  but  it  was 
impossible  that  natures  so  hostile  should  not  some- 
times clash  in  a  downright  quarrel,  whose  immedi- 
ate cause  was  generally  the  most  trivial.  The  boy 


18  ROGEE  HUNT. 

Roger  had  more  than  once  been  a  witness  of  these 
scenes,  more  curious  than  disturbed,  and  leaning 
usually  to  his  aunt's  side. 

Had  the  thought  ever  presented  itself  to  Roger 
Hunt  that  any  one's  sacrifice  except  his  own  was 
involved  in  his  present  domestic  arrangements,  he 
would  have  brushed  it  impatiently  aside.  It  seemed 
to  him  he  paid  the  debt  of  his  sister-in-law's  ser- 
vices to  the  full  in  his  forced  submission  to  her 
presence.  Everything  she  did  and  said  irritated 
him ;  the  tones  of  her  voice,  the  straight  folds  of 
her  bombazine  dress,  the  set  propriety  of  all  her 
ways  offended  him  like  a  direct  assault.  Her  en- 
trance into, the  room  where  he  was  filled  him  with 
resentment,  yet  so  thoroughly  had  her  presence  im- 
pregnated the  atmosphere  of  the  house  that  he  felt 
hardly  more  relieved  of  it  in  her  absence.  The 
truth  was,  as  he  had  said  to  Eleanor,  Roger  Hunt 
was  growing  to  hate  his  home.  It  shut  down  on 
him  like  a  tomb  every  time  he  entered  it.  The 
resolve  he  was  about  to  execute,  to  leave  it  forever, 
filled  him,  to-night,  with  nervous  exaltation. 

Seating  himself  at  his  desk  in  the  library  he 
wrote  several  letters,  then  arose  and  began  select- 
ing a  few  books  to  pack  in  a  valise  that  lay  care- 
lessly disclosed  on  the  floor.  While  thus  engaged 
he  caught  sight  of  his  son  standing  in  the  open 
door,  and  paused  abruptly. 

"I  think  I  will  go  to  bed  now,"  said  the  boy  with 
the  undue  gravity  that  marked  his  manner. 

"Very  well,"  his  father  replied,  and  stood  look- 


ROGER  HUNT.  19 

ing  at  him  helplessly.      "Shall  I  go  upstairs  with 

you?" 

"It  will  not  be  necessary.     Good-night." 

"Good-night,"  Roger  repeated  mechanically,  and 
stood  listening  while  the  little  feet  slowly  climbed 
the  stairs.  He  went  back  to  his  work,  but  it 
seemed  as  if  each  of  those  small  ascending  footsteps 
had  fallen  on  his  heart.  The  room  was  stifling 
and  he  threw  open  a  window,  but  the  draught 
chilled  him  and  he  closed  it  again.  His  heart 
beat  with  excitement,  and  for  a  moment  he  could 
see  nothing  clearly  in  the  room.  He  went  back  to 
his  work,  then  stood  still  to  listen.  His  fancy 
caught  an  unusual  sound,  and  he  rushed  from  the 
room  and  halfway  up  the  carpeted  stairway.  He 
stopped  and  listened  again.  All  was  quiet.  He 
had  fancied  he  heard  the  boy  crying  softly  to  him- 
self in  the  dark.  After  a  moment  he  spoke :  "  Did 
you  call,  Roger?  " 

"No,"  was  the  reply  sleepily  uttered  from  muf- 
fling bedclothes.  He  lingered  still. 

"Do  you  want  anything?  "  he  asked  again. 

"You  might  bring  me  a  drink  of  water,"  the 
inevitable  request  of  childhood  gone  to  bed,  from 
young  Astyanax  downward. 

His  father  carried  a  glass  of  water  to  the  bed- 
side. The  room  was  unlighted  save  from  the  hall 
below,  and  his  hand  shook. 

"You've  spilled  it,"  said  the  boy  in  a  peevish 
tone.  Roger  tried  in  a  man's  clumsy  fashion  to 
repair  the  mishap,  while  the  boy  lay  drowsily  back 
on  his  pillow. 


20  ROGER  HUNT. 

"Good-night,"  said  his  father,  again. 

"Good-night."  Roger  hesitated,  then  bent  over 
the  bed. 

"Don't  you  want  to  kiss  me?"  He  could  feel 
the  surprise  in  his  child's  eyes,  looking  up  at  him 
through  the  dark.  A  kiss  was  exchanged  between 
them. 

"I  am  going  away,"  Roger  said,  as  if  in  explana- 
tion of  such  a  request. 

"To-night?" 

"No,  not  to-night." 

"Then  we  could  have  said  good-by  to-morrow." 

Roger  smiled  bitterly  and  turned  away,  but  was 
still  reluctant  to  leave  the  room.  At  the  door  he 
stopped  and  spoke  again. 

"Don't  you  want  to  go  with  me?"  The  ques- 
tion was  even  more  of  a  surprise  to  him  than  to  the 
boy.  Suddenly  the  thought  had  darted  into  his 
mind,  —  Why  not  take  the  child?  Eleanor  would 
be  better  pleased;  it  would  serve  to  pacify  her 
conscience. 

"Where  to?"  was  the  question  from  the  bed. 

"  Oh,  to  a  good  many  places ;  across  the  ocean, 
perhaps." 

"Will  aunt  Sarah  go,  too?  " 

"No."     The  boy  deliberated  a  moment. 

"  Then  I  had  better  stay  here.  I  might  get  sick, 
and  there  would  be  no  one  to  mend  my  clothes." 

Roger  went  out  of  the  room  and  downstairs. 
The  impulse  that  had  so  suddenly  seized  him  had  as 
quickly  died.  The  utterly  prosaic  way  in  which 


ROGER  HUNT.  21 

his  suggestion  had  been  received,  the  absence  of  all 
childlike  interest  or  enthusiasm,  struck  his  own 
feeling  cold. 

"He  cares  nothing  for  me,"  he  said  to  himself, 
with  more  anger  than  sorrow.  "He  never  will. 
He  will  be  better  off  without  me.  I  am  as  useless 
here  as  I  am  miserable;"  and  with  resolve  newly 
strengthened,  and  knit  brow  and  compressed  lips, 
he  resumed  his  preparations. 

Half  an  hour  later  Miss  Watson  returned  and, 
passing  the  library  door,  paused  a  moment  on  the 
threshold.  Her  eyes  fell  on  the  open  valise  with 
some  surprise,  but  she  would  ask  no  questions. 
Her  brother-in-law,  she  supposed,  was  about  to 
take  another  of  those  sudden,  unexplained  journeys 
from  home,  which  formed  part  of  the  ill-regulated 
behavior  she  so  strongly  disapproved  of.  Roger 
felt  all  his  old  antipathies  arise  when  he  saw  her. 
He  returned  her  look  with  a  full  clear  gaze. 

"I  am  going  away,"  he  said  at  last. 

She  made  no  reply,  only  stood  regarding  him 
with  her  usual  expression  of  gloomy  disapproval. 

"It  is  likely  to  be  a  longer  journey  than  usual," 
he  went  on  with  a  peculiar  look  she  recalled  after- 
wards. 

"If  anything  should  happen,"  he  spoke  with  slow 
distinctness  here,  "you  know  my  business  adviser, 
Mr.  Somers.  He  will  give  you  necessary  instruc- 
tions." 

He  took  a  strange  satisfaction  which  experimen- 
tal natures  always  feel,  in  this  daring  half-reve- 


22  EOGER  HUNT. 

lation  of  his  plans,  picturing  the  retroactive  indig- 
nation with  which  his  words  would  cover  him  in 
her  mind.  She  listened  to  his  further  directions 
without  speaking,  and  when  he  had  finished,  she 
proffered  but  one  request. 

"If  you  are  likely  to  be  away  until  after 
Thanksgiving,  I  should  like  to  take  Roger  with  me 
to  Milton."  This  was  the  name  of  the  town  in 
which  the  old  homestead  stood,  rightly  selected, 
Roger  thought  ironically,  for  its  pious  appellation 
and  Arctic  climate.  He  smiled  a  little  as  he  gave 
the  required  permission,  thinking  how  useless  all 
commands  and  wishes  of  his  would  have  become 
by  that  time.  Miss  Watson  had  a  word  to  say  on 
another  subject. 

"  I  saw  Dr.  Manf ord  to-night. "  A  frown  crossed 
her  listener's  face.  Dr.  Manford  was  one  of  the 
consulting  staff  in  the  institution  that  sheltered 
Annie  Hunt. 

"Well?" 

"She  has  had  another  attack.  She  escaped 
from  her  room  last  Monday,  and  before  they  could 
find  her  she  had  broken  into  the  medicine  closet 
and"- 

"That  will  do,"  said  Roger  with  a  motion  of 
displeasure.  "We  are  familiar  with  that  story." 
She  turned  and  left  him. 

Under  the  impulse  of  this  latest  news  he  wheeled 
suddenly  about  and  faced  a  portrait  that  hung 
above  the  mantel,  which  until  now  he  had  avoided 
looking  at.  It  was  life-size,  a  two-thirds  figure  of 


ROGER  HUNT.  23 

a  young  woman  dressed  in  ball-room  attire,  with 
uncovered  neck  and  arms,  and  a  face  that  combined 
some  remaining  childlikeness  with  an  insolent  grace 
and  abandon.  Roger  knew  not  why  he  kept  it 
there,  unless  to  justify  the  dislike  he  had  always 
had  of  it.  The  gaze  of  the  bright,  shallow  eyes 
fell  on  him  mockingly. 

"Heartless  and  brainless!  "  he  exclaimed  in  his 
thoughts.  "A  doll!  A  butterfly!  Why'do  such 
creatures  exist  to  tempt  and  murder  honest  man- 
hood? What  harm  can  I  do  to  her  equal  to  that 
she  has  done  me?  The  man  that  will  bear  such 
shame  as  mine  deserves  to !  I  thank  heaven  I  am 
a  free  man  at  last ! " 

The  eyes  in  the  portrait  —  eyes  he  had  once 
praised  with  all  a  lover's  terms  of  fond  endear- 
ment —  fell  on  him  with  the  same  mocking  smile, 
while  his  flashed  back  eternal  defiance. 

Turning  away,  another  object  caught  his  look; 
an  open  letter  lying  among  the  loose  papers  on  the 
table,  directed  in  a  woman's  hand.  It  was  from 
Eleanor;  he  seized  and  covered  it  with  kisses. 
Sinking  down  into  a  large,  leather-covered  chair, 
he  leaned  back  with  closed  eyes  and  deliberately  let 
the  image  of  this  other  woman  fill  his  soul.  Judg- 
ment and  will  were  soon  in  a  blissful  trance,  and 
imagination  had  full  sway.  A  troop  of  tempting 
thoughts  and  fancies  bore  him  far  away  into  a 
dream  world  of  his  own,  where  two  figures  moved 
at  will,  holding  sweet  converse  together ;  where  dar- 
ing impulse  ruled  in  place  of  law,  and  where  feel- 


24  ROGEE  HUNT. 

ing  was  the  measure  not  of  happiness  alone,  but  of 
duty. 

There  are  men  of  more  sturdy  ethical  con- 
sciousness than  this  one,  if  not  so  aspiring  and 
self-determined,  who  recognize  the  true  nature  of 
experiences  of  this  kind ;  who  know  that  the  self- 
indulgence  thus  practiced  is  as  demoralizing  as  any 
act  of  physical  greed  or  passion.  Roger  Hunt  in- 
dulged his  emotions  as  other  men  do  appetites.  He 
did  not  know  that  the  vain,  ignorant  woman,  whose 
portrait  he  had  turned  his  back  upon,  who  had 
formed  the  habit  of  resorting  to  the  wine-cup  to 
ward  off  a  headache,  to  steady  failing  nerves,  or 
arouse  a  dejected  spirit,  was  less  culpable  than  the 
man  who  deliberately  yields  himself  up  to  the  nar- 
cotizing influence  of  his  unhallowed  dreams  and 
longings.  His  mind  was  carefully  trained,  and 
stored  with  wisdom  from  many  sources,  but  it  was 
not  open  to  comparisons  of  this  kind.  His  spirit 
sped  on  its  enamored  flight.  Conscious  that  he 
was  impelled  by  no  vulgar  or  sordid  aims,  his 
methods  seemed,  therefore,  above  reproach.  It  was 
nothing  to  him  that  men  would  abuse  and  misjudge 
him.  There  was  not  a  person  living  whose  opinion 
he  valued  on  a  subject  of  this  kind  as  much  as  his 
own.  "Every  man  is  the  arbiter  of  his  own  des- 
tiny," he  was  fond  of  saying.  He  was  not  afraid 
of  the  thing  he  was  about  to  do. 


in. 

ROGER  HUNT  and  Eleanor  were  on  their  way 
across  the  Atlantic  when  the  news  of  their  secret 
flight  from  home  reached  the  public,  through  the 
large -lettered  head-lines  of  a  morning  newspaper. 
It  gave  a  severe  shock  to  the  community  in  which 
Hunt  had  lived  so  long  in  high  esteem,  though 
personally  known  to  but  few.  Investigation  into 
the  affair  revealed  the  whole  dark  history  of  his 
home  life,  and  public  opinion  wavered  a  little,  try- 
ing to  strike  a  balance  between  the  sufferings  and 
faults  of  one  whose  career  now  seemed  closed. 
Roger  Hunt's  friends  had  always  been  more  or  less 
his  apologists,  and  now  felt  themselves  more  se- 
verely taxed  than  ever  before  for  this  relationship. 
Some  of  them  tried,  in  makeshift  fashion,  to  ex- 
plain his  conduct  on  the  ground  of  the  near  kin- 
ship a  man  of  his  talent  and  attainments  bears  to 
genius,  with  its  known  eccentricities.  A  few  of 
these  friends  had  come  together,  through  a  mixture 
of  chance  and  intention,  at  the  house  of  his  most 
intimate  one,  George  Somers,  who  was  also  his 
lawyer. 

It  was  here  that  Roger  first  saw  Eleanor  Thax- 
ter,  in  attendance  on  a  small  literary  gathering  that 
met  weekly  under  the  superintendence  of  Mrs. 


26  ROGER  HUNT. 

Somers,  for  the  study  of  Plato.  Mrs.  Somers 
knew  Roger  before  her  husband  did;  she  had  been 
acquainted  with  him  since  his  college  days,  and 
was  entirely  familiar  with  his  history,  understand- 
ing his  faults  and  virtues  better  than  any  other  ac- 
quaintance. She  had  a  sisterly  fondness  for  and 
pride  in  him,  aided  by  a  generous  feeling  that  the 
knowledge  of  his  general  unpopularity  aroused. 
The  other  members  of  the  little  company  were 
Henry  Hamilton  and  his  wife,  and  Mortimer  Gray, 
a  young  journalist  and  Mrs.  Somers 's  chief  assist- 
ant in  the  Plato  class.  Mr.  Hamilton  was  a  man 
of  shy,  retiring  manners,  who  gained  a  substantial 
living  for  himself  and  family  in  wholesale  hard- 
ware, but  who  had  always  cherished  a  secret  pas- 
sion for  literature,  which  expressed  itself  in  one 
form  in  a  worshipful  admiration  for  Roger  Hunt. 
Mrs.  Hamilton  was  a  woman  of  upright  stature  and 
opinions,  prominent  in  church  work  and  the  city 
charities,  whose  conservative  instincts  led  her  to 
look  askance  at  the  Plato  class.  She  had  always 
disliked  Roger  Hunt  as  much  as  her  husband  liked 
him. 

"It  doesn't  surprise  me  so  much,  now  that  I  've 
recovered  from  the  first  shock,"  said  George  Som- 
ers, in  the  judicial  tone  that  suited  his  professional 
standing  and  growing  physical  built.  His  wife 
laughed  sarcastically,  and  with  a  suspicion  of  hys- 
teria. 

"It  is  just  the  sort  of  thing  a  man  like  Hunt, 
situated  as  he  was  and  with  his  peculiar  notions, 
could  easily  persuade  himself  to  do." 


ROGER  HUNT.  27 

"What  were  his  'peculiar  notions'?"  Gray 
asked.  He  did  not  know  Hunt  very  well,  had 
never  been  able  to  approach  him,  but  he  had  fallen 
into  the  habit  of  noticing  Miss  Thaxter  of  late. 

"  Oh,  the  sort  your  incipient  revolutionist  always 
carries  concealed  about  him.  He  had  a  fierce  be- 
lief in  liberty,  for  one  thing"  — 

"Liberty!  "  exclaimed  Gray,  in  a  puzzled  tone. 
"Is  there  any  one  nowadays  who  does  n't  believe 
in  liberty?  " 

"Ah,  but  you  see  how  Hunt  defines  it.  Then 
he  had  a  moral  courage  that  was  sublime,  though 
it  was  apt  to  mistake  its  object." 

"Yes,  I  've  often  noticed  that,"  Hamilton  put  in 
eagerly,  leaning  forward  with  a  slight  flush  on  his 
delicate  skin.  "There  was  a  singular  combination 
of  purity  and  daring  in  him.  It  —  it  reminded  me 
of  Shelley." 

"I  should  think  so,"  his  wife  replied,  and  Mr. 
Hamilton's  spirits  drooped  a  little,  while  the  rest 
of  the  company  looked  abashed. 

"He  seems  to  have  been  a  rather  queer  mixture 
of  the  hero  and  the  crank,"  said  Gray,  to  fill  in  the 
pause. 

"Well,  most  of  your  heroes  have  their  cranky 
side,  you  know,"  Mr.  Somers  replied,  leaning 
back  in  his  great  chair. 

"I  never  saw  much  of  the  hero  in  him,"  said 
Mrs.  Hamilton. 

"He  had  many  fine  traits,  though,"  her  husband 
said,  plucking  up  his  courage.  "It  won't  do  to 


28  ROGER  HUNT. 

judge  a  man  like  Hunt  as  you  would  a  common 
adventurer.  The  public  will  condemn  him  without 
reserve,  but  we  should  discriminate.  We  should 
think  of  the  motive  that  lay  behind.  Hunt  is  not 
the  man  to  act  from  a  low  motive." 

His  wife  regarded  him  pityingly.  "Mr.  Ham- 
ilton always  overrates  his  friends,"  she  said  in 
apology  for  his  weakness. 

"I  think  that  is  a  very  good  fault,"  said  Mrs. 
Somers,  looking  at  him  encouragingly.  "I  should 
like  to  be  counted  among  his  friends." 

"You  wouldn't  have  to  ask  me  twice,"  put  in 
the  young  journalist,  coming  to  the  other's  relief. 
He  had  the  modesty  of  his  years  —  and  sex  —  and 
felt  uncomfortable,  thinking  perhaps  he  ought  to 
make  his  excuses  and  go,  but  yielding  to  the  wish 
to  stay.  Mrs.  Somers  smiled  weakly. 

"Mr.  Hunt  thought  a  great  deal  of  Mr.  Hamil- 
ton," she  said,  in  continued  kindness  to  the  latter. 

"That  was  because  Mr.  Hamilton  is  such  a  good 
listener,"  his  wife  answered,  mercilessly.  Her  hus- 
band flushed,  but  rallied  again. 

"Mr.  Hunt  was  worth  listening  to,"  he  said. 
"He  was  one  of  the  finest  conversationalists  I  ever 
met." 

"I  don't  know,  I  'm  sure,"  his  tormentor  replied. 
"I  never  heard  Mr.  Hunt  converse.  I've  heard 
him  talk.  He  was  perfect  at  monologue.  Your 
good  conversationalist  knows  how  to  listen  as  well 
as  talk ;  but  Mr.  Hunt  never  listened,  at  least  he 
never  listened  to  me." 


ROGER  HUNT.  29 

Mrs.  Somers  looked  as  if  she  knew  why.  "His 
manner  was  rather  fitful,"  she  said  apologetically, 
"but  to  those  who  understood  him  he  seemed  not 
only  a  brave  but  a  generous  man.  I  have  known 
him  to  do  the  kindest  things  "  — 

"And  I  have  known  him  to  do  the  rudest,  and 
the  most  selfish,"  the  other  quickly  interrupted. 

"I  am  sure  Roger  Hunt  was  never  intentionally 
selfish,"  said  Mrs.  Somers  warmly. 

"Oh,  'intentionally'!"  her  listener  repeated, 
scornfully. 

"He  would  make  any  sacrifice  for  a  friend"  — 

" '  For  a  friend ' !  Very  likely.  How  much 
sacrifice  and  kindness  has  that  woman  experienced 
who  has  taken  charge  of  his  house  for  three  years  ?  " 

"The  testimony  seems  a  little  conflicting,"  said 
Gray,  turning  to  the  master  of  the  house. 

"Xot  at  all,"  was  the  reply.  "Both  ladies  are 
right.  They  are  looking  at  different  sides  of  the 
shield,  that  is  all.  Hunt  is  a  man  whose  manners 
are,  determined  by  his  feelings,  and  his  feelings 
are  always  strong." 

"It's  perfectly  scandalous,"  said  Mrs.  Hamil- 
ton, coming  back  to  the  main  issue.  "It  makes 
one  feel  as  if  the  very  foundations  were  giving  way. 
I  don't  know  what  you  can  expect  of  the  lower 
orders  "  — 

"Yes,  it 's  a  dead  give-away  to  the  lower  orders," 
said  Mr.  Somers.  His  visitor  looked  at  him  in 
stony  incomprehension. 

"I  must  say.  George,  I  don't  think  this  is  a  sub- 


30  ROGER  HUNT. 

ject  for  weak-minded  jesting,"  said  his  wife  in  mar- 
ital reproof.  "I  don't  care  anything  about  the 
lower  orders,"  she  went  on,  in  some  excitement. 
"I  beg  your  pardon,  Mrs.  Hamilton,  but  I  don't. 
But  I  do  care  for  my  friends,"  catching  her  breath. 

"  I  thought  Miss  Thaxter  was  only  a  recent  ac- 
quaintance," said  the  other  woman. 

"I  'm  not  speaking  of  Miss  Thaxter." 

"You  see  there  was  an  old  attachment  between 
Hunt  and  my  wife,"  Mr.  Somers  explained,  with 
husbandly  freedom,  "but  she  happened  to  be  en- 
gaged to  me  " 

"George,  you  know  that  isn't  true,"  his  victim 
broke  in,  with  heightened  color  and  visible  annoy- 
ance. 

"Not  true  that  you  were  engaged  to  me?  And 
so  they  've  kept  up  a  kind  of  Platonic  friendship 
ever  since." 

The  injured  wife  sank  helplessly  back  in  her 
chair,  and  the  guests  looked  sympathetic  discom- 
fort, while  the  speaker  laughed  and  took  another 
tone. 

"Oh,  well.  Hunt  wasn't  altogether  a  bad  fellow. 
I  admit  I  had  a  sneaking  fondness  for  him  myself. 
But  I  've  always  known  a  dynamite  bomb  was  about 
as  safe  a  piece  of  furniture  in  the  house  as  he  was. 
He  has  made  a  nice  mess  of  it  now,  but  the  con- 
sjequences  will  fall  on  his  own  head." 

"Not  so  severely  as  they  will  on  hers;  they 
never  do,"  said  Mrs.  Hamilton  severely. 

Young  Gray  looked  newly  disturbed  and  inter- 
ested here,  but  listened  attentively. 


EOGER  HUNT.  31 

"I  'm  afraid  that 's  so.  I  suppose  it  will  prove 
in  this  case,  as  in  others,  that  the  woman  will  come 
in  for  the  severest  blame,  especially  from  her  affec- 
tionate sex." 

"No,  Mr.  Somers,  not  from  me.  Of  course  I 
blame  Miss  Thaxter,  but  it  is  easy  to  see  she  was 
like  wax  in  his  hands.  There  was  always  some- 
thing uncanny  about  the  man  to  me.  I  declare, 
if  I  didn't  know  it  was  nonsense,  I  should  say  he 
had  gained  some  queer  kind  of  influence  over  her. 
Did  you  ever  notice  his  eyes?  "  turning  to  her  host- 
ess. The  latter  looked  a  little  conscious  and  said 
she  did  n't  know. 

"I  don't  believe  in  such  things,  of  course,"  Mrs. 
Hamilton  went  on,  "but  I  distrusted  him  the 
moment  I  saw  him."  Young  Gray  rose  from  his 
chair.  He  shook  hands  with  Mrs.  Hamilton  and 
thanked  her  —  she  could  not  conceive  why  —  then 
bowed  his  adieux  to  the  gentlemen.  Mrs.  Som- 
ers followed  him  in  sisterly  fashion  to  the  door. 

"If  it  had  n't  been  for  the  presence  of  the 
ladies  I  could  have  characterized  that  fellow's 
conduct  without  half  this  trouble,"  he  said,  as  he 
took  her  hand  at  parting. 

"Roger  Hunt  isn't  a  'fellow; '  but  never  mind 
the  ladies.  Say  what  you  wish." 

"Very  well,  then,  I  say  he  is  a  damned  scoun- 
drel." He  spoke  without  heat,  but  with  a  gravity 
that  gave  his  words  a  religious  sound.  She  smiled 
sadly,  and  shook  her  head. 

"It 's  all  right  if  it  makes  you  feel  any  better, 


32  ROGER  HUNT. 

but  it  is  n't  a  bit  philosophical.  Of  course  I  feel 
sorry  for  her  too,"  she  added  in  some  afterthought. 
The  young  man  reddened  a  little. 

"I  think  I  shall  forego  philosophy,"  he  said,  and 
opening  the  door  passed  out. 

"It  is  n't  necessary  to  resort  to  the  supernatural 
to  explain  Hunt,"  Mrs.  Somers  heard  her  husband 
say  as  she  returned  to  the  parlor.  "Call  him  an 
egotist.  Most  men  admit  they  should  pay  some 
regard  to  the  laws  of  the  social  universe,  but  oc- 
casionally a  man  arises  who  feels  it  his  mission  to 
present  the  world  with  a  new  pattern.  Now  every- 
body admits  the  need  of  new  patterns.  You  should 
hear  the  way  Hunt  reasons  it  out  in  the  letter  he 
wrote  me  the  night  before  he  went  away." 

"Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Somers,  leaning  forward  from 
the  chair  in  which  she  had  seated  herself.  "His 
letter  is  really  quite  remarkable.  And  it  is  only 
fair  to  look  at  it  from  his  side.  Of  course  his  rea- 
soning is  as  wrong  and  ridiculous  as  can  be,"  in 
deferential  aside  to  Mrs.  Hamilton,  "but  it  is  only 
just  to  remember  how  he  looks  at  it.  He  believes 
his  to  be  an  exceptional  case ;  we  know  there  are 
exceptional  cases.  Shelley  thought  his  was,"  turn- 
ing this  time  to  Mr.  Hamilton,  "but  I  never  cared 
much  about  Shelley." 

"Which  proves  it  wasn't,  I  suppose,"  her  hus- 
band put  in. 

"Then  there  was  George  Eliot.  We  all  admit 
that  hers  was  an  exceptional  case." 

"I  beg  your  pardon,   Mrs.    Somers,   not  all  of 


ROGER  HUNT.  33 

us,"  and  Mrs.  Hamilton  straightened  her  figure  to 
a  more  upright  position  than  before. 

"I  'm  very  narrow-minded,"  she  went  on  with  a 
chilly  smile.  "I  'm  not  an  agnostic;  I  leave  specu- 
lation to  Mr.  Hamilton.  There  are  a  few  things 
I  feel  I  've  gained  pretty  complete  knowledge  of. 
One  is  that  a  man's  responsibility  is  measured  by 
his  intelligence." 

"What  do  you  mean  by  'intelligence'?"  Mr. 
Somers  asked.  "Hunt  had  a  fair  degree  of  book- 
ish knowledge ;  he  was  well  up  in  the  classics  and 
mediaeval  art,  but  in  some  other  respects  he  was  a 
perfect  ignoramus.  I  often  used  to  say  the  same 
thing  to  him,"  he  added  defensively.  None  of 
them  seemed  to  notice  they  were  speaking  in  the 
past  tense. 

"I  suppose  he  was  like  most  specialists,"  said 
Mr.  Hamilton.  "His  range  of  information  was 
high  rather  than  broad.  I  am  in  sympathy  with 
Mrs.  Somers.  Her  generous  defense  "  — 

"Oh,  I'm  not  defending  him,"  Mrs.  Somers 
broke  in,  in  some  alarm.  "  I  only  think  we  should 
look  at  a  subject  on  all  sides." 

Her  husband  laughed,  in  irritating  fashion. 

"Kitty  prides  herself  on  her  ability  to  think  as 
every  one  else  does.  She  has  n't  led  the  class  in 
Plato  two  years  for  nothing.  But  there  's  no  dan- 
ger her  practice  will  run  ahead  of  other  people's. 
It 's  all  summed  up  in  the  word  I  've  selected," 
he  went  on,  showing  he  liked  to  theorize  as  well 
as  his  wife.  "Hunt  is  a  born  egotist.  Nothing 


34  ROGER  HUNT. 

would  offend  him  more  than  to  think  gravitation 
had  anything  to  do  with  his  power  to  stand  up- 
risrht.  He  likes  to  think  it 's  all  due  to  his  own 

O 

will  and  intention.  Did  you  ever  notice  that  trick 
he  has  of  standing  very  straight  at  times,  so  that 
he  tips  a  little  backward?"  to.  Mr.  Hamilton. 
"That  expresses  very  well  his  notion  of  moral  in- 
dependence." 

"  Well,  he  has  tipped  backward  a  good  ways  this 
time,"  said  Mrs.  Hamilton  rising  from  her  chair. 

"Yes,  that's  true,"  her  host  assented,  as  he 
rose  also,  but  with  somewhat  greater  effort. 

"  But  he  did  everything  that  was  honorable  about 
it,"  Mrs.  Somers  put  in  anxiously.  "He  provided 
for  his  child  very  handsomely,  — the  larger  half 
of  all  he  had,  didn't  you  say?"  turning  to  her 
husband. 

"I  don't  know  as  I  said  the  larger  half;  one 
half  is  as  large  as  the  other  in  all  the  arithmetic  I 
ever  studied." 

"That  is  nothing,"  replied  Mrs.  Hamilton. 
"  What  is  money  when  coupled  with  a  disgraced 
name?" 

Mrs.  Somers  tried  to  murmur  something  polite 
and  conciliatory,  but  the  uncompromising  plain- 
ness of  her  guest's  words  offended  her.  It  was  with 
great  relief  she  saw  the  two  depart.  Her  disturbed 
feelings  found  a  natural  vent  in  the  first  words 
addressed  to  her  husband  when  they  were  alone. 

"Well,  George,  I  don't  know  how  you  can  call 
yourself  Roger  Hunt's  friend,  and  talk  about  him 
as  you  have  to-night !  " 


ROGER  HUNT.  85 

"I  don't  know  as  I  'm  anxious  to  prove  that 
relationship,  just  now.  I  would  sacrifice  as  much 
for  a  friend  as  most  people,  but  not  my  gift  for 
psychological  analysis.  No  one  would  in  this  age." 

He  drew  out  his  watch  and  pronounced  it  bed- 
time, then  went  below  to  attend  to  the  furnace. 
Their  income  was  modest,  and  they  lived  simply 
with  a  single  servant,  who  took  most  of  her  even- 
ings "out." 

Mrs.  Somers  climbed  the  stairs  to  their  room 
above,  marveling  with  some  irritation  over  those 
self-sustained  qualities  in  the  masculine  mind  which 
enable  it  to  stand  upright,  on  its  two  feet,  so  to 
speak,  under  circumstances  that  reduce  the  femi- 
nine consciousness  to  meaningless  pulp.  It  was 
ridiculous,  she  knew,  but  it  did  seem  the  sign  of  a 
hardened  nature  that  in  the  midst  of  trouble  like 
this,  and  with  that  uneasy  sense  of  complicity 
which  their  long  intimacy  with  Roger  Hunt 
aroused,  George  should  remember  to  fill  the  fur- 
nace. For  herself,  she  had  wandered  in  and  out 
of  the  house  all  day  in  a  maze  of  gloomy  absent- 
mindedness,  committing  all  the  mistakes  within 
reach.  She  had  dusted  the  library  with  the  hearth- 
brush,  watered  the  geraniums  in  the  dining-room 
window  with  the  remaining  contents  of  the  milk- 
jug,  and  given  the  grocer's  order  to  the  postman. 
She  was  standing  before  the  dressing-bureau,  re- 
moving her  hairpins  when  her  husband  joined  her. 

"That  girl  left  the  back  door  unbolted  again," 
he  said. 


36  EOGER  HUNT. 

"Did  she?"  she  replied,  indifferently.  She 
shook  her  loosened  hair  over  her  shoulders,  then 
began  brushing  it. 

"I  can't  help  it,"  she  exclaimed,  after  the  braid- 
ing process  had  begun.  "I  did  like  him,"  catch- 
ing her  breath  a  little.  "I  can't  bear  to  give  him 
up  like  this.  I  don't  see  what  he  was  thinking  of  ! 
And  Eleanor  Thaxter !  Mark  my  words,  George, 
she  will  be  perfectly  miserable!  " 

"No,  she  will  be  imperfectly  miserable;  but 
that 's  worse." 

"Oh,  I  wish  you  wouldn't  try  to  talk  like  one 
of  Henry  James's  novels,"  she  exclaimed  pettishly. 
He  attempted  no  answer  to  this,  winding  his  watch 
and  placing  it  under  his  pillow. 

"  How  long  have  you  seen  this  thing  *  going 
on?  r "  he  asked  her,  when  he  had  taken  off  his  coat 
and  hung  it  over  a  chair.  She  wheeled  about  and 
looked  at  him. 

"Do  you  mean  to  say  you've  seen  it  'going 
on?' "  she  asked  him  sharply.  He  smiled  and 
looked  a  little  foolish. 

"I  saw  him  kiss  her  once."  , 

"George! "  she  gasped. 

"With  his  eyes,  I  mean." 

She  seemed  still  more  displeased  with  this,  and 
turned  back  to  the  mirror. 

"  Your  way  of  talking  about  this  will  put  us  all 
in  the  wrong,"  she  replied  a  moment  after.  "I 
wish  you  would  be  more  careful.  I  know  you  've 
set  Mrs.  Hamilton  thinking.  She  's  the  most  ex- 


ROGER  HUNT.  37 

asperating  woman  I  know!  "  flinging  the  finished 
braid  over  her  shoulder.  "'The  trouble  with  such 
people  is  they  haven't  a  particle  of  imagination!  " 
"Then  they  '11  help  preserve  the  balance  against 
Hunt.  He  hasn't  anything  else." 

"Oh,  don't  speak  of  it,"  she  groaned.  "When 
I  think  of  the  questions  that  will  be  asked  us!  It 
will  ruin  the  Plato  class!  " 

"Yes;  you  see  what  such  things  come  to." 
She  made  no  reply.  Seated  on  a  low  ottoman, 
forgetful  of  her  surroundings,  she  fell  into  a  per- 
plexed and  dreamful  reverie,  in  which  her  old  sym- 
pathetic understanding  of  the  friend,  thus  lost, 
came  back  to  her,  with  sorrow  for  the  disappoint- 
ments he  had  suffered,  and  blame  of  fate  that  had 
imposed  them.  She  thought  of  his  wrecked  career, 
then  of  the  real  use,  source  of  deserved  joy  and 
happiness,  this  new  love  might  have  been,  had  it 
been  honestly  obtained.  Pity  for  their  great  mis- 
take, the  suffering  that  must  have  been  theirs  in 
any  case,  softened  harsher  thoughts  for  a  moment. 
"I  feel  so  sorry  for  them  both,"  she  sighed. 
"Any  one  can  see  they  are  just  made  for  each 
other." 

"Well,  Kitty,  you  've  sunk  pretty  low." 
"Oh,    I  know  it,"   springing  to  her  feet.      "I 
feel  as  if  there  was  n't  a  single  moral  fibre  left  in 
me." 

"You  'd  better  get  into  bed  and  go  to  sleep." 
"Sleep!  "  she  exclaimed  scornfully;  but  she  went 
on  with  her  preparations.      Soon  she  paused  again 


38  ROGER  HUNT. 

to  give  expression  to  another  remembrance  that 
darted  across  her  mind. 

"George,  it's  as  I  thought.  Mortimer  Gray 
was  beginning  to  care  about  her." 

"He  ought  not  to  find  it  hard  to  stop  now.  I 
wouldn't  worry  about  Mortimer  Gray." 

"It's  awful!"  she  moaned,  "perfectly  awful! 
If  we  only  knew  how  it  would  end!  " 

"  What  do  you  want  to  know  that  for  ?  For  my 
part,  when  a  thing  begins  as  bad  as  this,  I  am  con- 
tent to  have  my  knowledge  stop  there." 

"Yes,  yes;  you  are  right,"  she  replied  quickly. 
"I  shudder  to  think  of  it." 

"  Well,  I  've  got  through  thinking  about  it,  at 
least  for  to-night.  I  'm  tired  of  both  of  them. 
I  'm  going  to  sleep." 

He  got  into  bed  and  pulled  the  clothes  up  over 
his  ears.  She  sighed  and  knew  he  would  be  as 
good  as  his  word.  Slipping  into  her  place  by  his 
side,  his  regular  and  not  very  gentle  breathing 
soon  told  her  that  for  him  the  day's  cares  and  vex- 
ations were  forgotten.  She  listened  with  envy, 
mixed  with  a  slight  feeling  of  umbrage.  For  her- 
self, she  knew  she  should  lie  awake  half  the  night, 
fretting  about  other  people's  troubles  she  was  not 
expected  to  help. 


IV. 

THERE  was  a  reason  why  Mrs.  Somers  should 
feel  more  disturbed  over  this  affair  than  her  hus- 
band did.  Roger  Hunt  had  called  to  see  her  the 
day  of  his  flight  from  home.  The  ostensible  pur- 
pose of  this  visit  she  now  saw  covered  another,  half 
revealed,  impossible  for  her  to  conjecture  at  the 
time,  and  which  she  reflected  on  indignantly.  He 
meant,  she  believed,  or  at  least  wished,  to  make 
her  his  confidant,  but  had  not  quite  dared  to ;  being 
deterred  also  by  a  failing  sympathy  in  her  own 
manner  he  had  then  complained  of.  She  asked 
herself  with  some  displeasure  what  reason  she  had 
ever  given  him  to  think  she  had  any  sympathy  to 
bestow  in  such  a  cause  ?  The  remembrance  of  the 
interview  was  so  unpleasant  that  she  could  not  in- 
crease its  discomfort  by  speaking  of  it  to  any  one, 
not  even  to  her  husband. 

Roger  called  in  the  forenoon,  and  found  her  in 
the  library,  which  was  also  the  living-room.  The 
pretended  object  of  his  visit  was  to  fetch  her  a  set 
of  engravings  illustrating  the  Acropolis,  which  he 
had  come  across  the  evening  before;  remembering 
to  have  heard  her  express  a  wish  for  something  of 
the  kind,  he  at  once  resolved  to  take  them  to  her, 
glad  of  an  excuse  to  see  her  again,  and  hoping  for 
other  results. 


40  ROGER  HUNT. 

She  received  the  gift  with  delight,  thanking  him, 
running  through  the  pages,  and  exclaiming  over 
each  in  her  animated  fashion;  while  he,  seated 
opposite  her,  watched  and  listened  to  her  with  half- 
pleased,  half -moody  expression. 

Roger  Hunt  had  a  singular  feeling  towards  Kitty 
Somers!  There  had  been  times  when  he  almost 
fancied  he  was  in  love  with  her.  They  had  known 
each  other  since  his  entrance  into  the  university, 
when  he  made  his  home  with  herself  and  widowed 
father,  the  university  chaplain. 

Hunt  was  no  more  popular  among  his  college  as- 
sociates than  those  of  after-life,  and  from  the  first 
Kitty  Platt,  as  she  was  then  known,  and  a  favor- 
ite with  all  the  college  folk,  found  herself  in  a  po- 
sition of  defense  towards  the  new-comer.  Roger 
never  knew  how  many  slights  and  impish  tricks  he 
escaped  through  the  watchful  intervention  of  this 
friend.  Compelled  thus  to  try  to  understand  him, 
she  soon  came  to  feel  a  sincere  admiration  and  af- 
fection for  him.  She  was  one  of  those  women  who 
know  how  to  form  friendships  with  men,  without 
letting  the  relation  degenerate  into  that  weak  imi- 
tation of  a  stronger  passion,  disguised  under  the 
name  "Platonic,"  a  word  she  disliked,  and  had 
justly  resented  her  husband's  use  of.  She  and 
Roger  Hunt  soon  became  excellent  friends.  His 
more  ardent  temperament,  the  way  he  had,  and 
still  kept,  of  entering  into  every  fresh  relation  as 
if  it  were  the  newly -discovered  end  of  existence,  led 
many  to  predict  a  still  nearer  bond  of  union  be- 


ROGER  HUNT.  41 

tween  them,  which,  for  all  that  the  present  biogra- 
pher knows  of  the  potentialities  in  such  matters, 
might  have  been  fulfilled,  had  not  a  sudden  move 
in  the  human  chess-board  taken  place,  which  al- 
tered everything. 

Roger  Hunt  had  no  sooner  met  Annie  Watson 
than  that  current  of  wild,  swift  passion  was  set 
flowing,  in  which  the  quiet  stream  of  a  noble,  up- 
lifting friendship  was  engulfed  and  lost  sight  of. 
Kitty  Platt  was  made  the  confidant  of  this  fresh 
experience  as  of  every  other,  and  could  not  forbear 
signs  of  her  dismayed  surprise.  She  unwisely  at- 
tempted to  remonstrate,  and  was  rewarded  with  a 
month's  coldness  and  withdrawal  of  favor  for  her 
pains.  She  then  learned  what  Eoger  Hunt's  pro- 
fessions of  friendship  were  worth,  the  real  measure 
of  regard  in  which  she,  his  nearest  and  most  trusted 
counselor,  so  he  had  often  told  her,  was  to  be  held, 
now  that  her  opinion  had  run  counter  to  his  on  a 
matter  of  vital  concern  to  himself. 

A  woman  is  never  in  a  fair  position  to  reason  her 
friend  of  the  other  sex  out  of  a  mistake  of  this 
kind ;  and  it  takes  a  very  modest  man  to  refrain 
from  putting  his  own  construction  on  the  interfer- 
ence he  encounters  in  such  matters  from  such  a 
source.  Roger  Hunt  was  not  a  modest  man,  and 
had  ever  since  cherished  certain  illusions  respecting 
this  particular  episode  in  his  life,  which  even  the 
circumstance  of  his  friend's  marriage  to  another 
had  not  seriously  disturbed.  Though  he  made  a 
companion  of  George  Somers  and  had  come  to 


42  ROGER  HUNT. 

depend  on  him  a  good  deal  in  practical  affairs,  to 
himself  he  never  pretended  to  regard  Kitty  Platt's 
marriage  with  any  other  feelings  than  mingled  pity 
and  contempt.  The  two  men  were  but  slightly  at- 
tracted at  first,  and  had  it  not  been  for  the  re- 
strained nature  of  the  one,  and  the  fact  that  a  wo- 
man stood  between  them,  their  acquaintance  would 
probably  never  have  passed  the  most  formal  limits. 
George  Somers  appeared  on  the  scene  about  the 
same  time  as  Annie  Watson.  He  was  one  of  the 
"specials,"  and  regarded  with  the  usual  feeling  of 
patronage  that  class  arouses  in  university  life ;  so 
here,  too,  the  generous  instincts  in  Kitty  Platt's 
nature,  always  active,  found  an  object.  In  her 
fresh  vexation  over  Roger's  folly  it  is  probable  that 
the  contrast  appeared  more  plainly  between  her 
gifted  but  erratic  friend  and  this  newer  acquaint- 
ance, the  quiet,  muscular  young  man,  with  his 
steady  eyes  and  plain  sensible  talk,  and  a  mental 
balance  always  preserved.  Roger's  headlong  woo- 
ing had  quickly  culminated  in  the  marriage  which 
was  so  soon  to  lead  to  ruin  and  misery  on  both 
sides,  while  the  courtship  of  these  two  was  still 
slowly  progressing.  When  their  marriage  followed, 
it  was  but  the  public  sanction  of  a  relation  that 
had  been  given  two  years  to  ripen  in  and  had  long 
passed  the  stage  of  quivering  nerves  and  thrill- 
ing pulses.  That  was  why  it  seemed  so  prosaic  an 
affair  to  Roger,  who  by  this  time  was  something  of 
a  scoffer  at  marriage.  He  was  soon  on  an  intimate 
footing  in  the  new  household,  though  his  restored 


ROGER  HUNT.  43 

relations  with  the  mistress  were  based  on  no  admis- 
sion of  a  mistake  on  his  part.  He  admitted  a  mis- 
take, but  had  his  own  way  of  explaining  it,  which 
made  it  rather  redound  to  his  credit  than  otherwise ; 
and  he  still  nourished  a  little  feeling  against  Kitty 
Somers.  On  the  other  hand,  pity  for  his  misfor- 
tunes, and  knowledge  of  those  peculiarities  other 
people  blamed  so  unsparingly,  combined  to  soften 
judgment  with  these  friends,  who  felt  they  had 
something  to  spare  out  of  their  own  married  con- 
tent to  one  so  severely  used  as  Roger  Hunt. 

It  was  Roger's  misfortune,  more  than  his  fault, 
perhaps,  that  he  was  so  seldom  able  to  emulate 
another's  generous  estimate  of  himself.  Opinion 
rarely  went  beyond  its  first  preconception  with 
him,  unless  personal  interest  became  strongly  en- 
gaged. He  still  held  to  his  first  view  of  Kitty 
Platt's  marriage,  but  it  was  not  a  subject  of  much 
concern  to  him,  and  he  found  it  less  difficult  there- 
fore to  conceal  his  feeling.  The  spirit  of  frank 
camaraderie  which  existed  between  husband  and 
wife,  the  spirit  of  badinage  which  entered  into  most 
of  their  talk,  the  absence  of  demonstration  in  their 
manner,  were  the  signs,  to  Roger's  romantic  fancy, 
of  indifference  and  mental  disparity.  He  knew 
they  sometimes  differed  seriously,  exchanging  opin- 
ions with  entire  candor  and  some  warmth  —  quar- 
reled ;  an  impossible  circumstance  in  true  marriage, 
he  argued,  which  to  be  tolerated  at  all  must  be 
perfect,  its  success  and  happiness  being  measured 
by  the  first  transported  feeling  leading  to  it. 


44  ROGER  HUNT. 

Had  Mrs.  Somers  known  the  kind  of  speculation 
she  was  made  the  subject  of  in  her  unhappy  friend's 
mind,  she  would  have  been,  first,  indignant,  then 
amused.  She  had  learned  to  indulge  and  bear 
with  much  she  disapproved  of  in  this  direction. 
Intellectually  she  honored  and  looked  up  to  Roger 
Hunt  as  to  no  other  friend ;  and  because  she  knew 
his  faults  so  well  she  understood  other  traits  few 
would  take  the  pains  to  understand.  She  had  a 
judicial  head,  though  essentially  feminine,  with 
her  blonde  hair  and  slender  figure.  The  habit  she 
cultivated  of  looking  on  all  sides  of  a  question,  and, 
as  her  husband  said,  of  trying  to  think  as  every 
one  else  did,  discredited  her  in  many  minds  with 
the  usual  degree  of  womanly  sensibility ;  in  Roger's 
also,  sometimes.  She  herself,  however,  was  often 
conscious  of  a  mental  perspective  blurred  by  feel- 
ing. Could  she  always  stop  liking  people  when 
obliged  to  disapprove  of  them,  or  like  only  those  she 
approved,  human  analysis  would  be  easier.  As  it 
was,  pity  melted  her  on  one  side,  while  reason  up- 
braided her  on  the  other ;  and  the  strain  was  never 
more  severe  than  when  trying  to  reach  some  fresh 
conclusion  about  Roger  Hunt. 

As  they  sat  together  on  the  occasion  of  his  last 
visit,  and  she  thanked  him  again  for  his  friendly 
remembrance  of  her,  he  called  her  attention  to  the 
inscription  on  the  inside  of  the  cover,  holding  the 
prints  in  place ;  her  name,  with  the  date  and  his 
own  initials. 

"I  wrote  it  in  pencil,  so  that  you  can  erase  it 
whenever  you  wish." 


ROGER  HUNT.  45 

She  looked  at  him  questioningly,  but  smiling 
also. 

"Why  should  I  wish  to  erase  it?"  she  asked, 
laying  the  volume  aside  and  taking  up  a  piece  of 
croL-het  work  near  by. 

"You  may  —  some  time."  There  was  something 
in  his  tone  that  made  her  glance  at  him  again. 
He  sat  sideways  on  his  chair,  his  arm  resting  on 
the  back,  his  head  leaning  dejectedly  on  his  hand. 

She  saw  he  was  out  of  sorts,  but  experience  had 
taught  her  that  certain  moods  of  his  deserved  less 
attention  than  neglect.  She  was  beginning  to  dread 
the  responsibility  of  her  position,  and  was  in  daily 
fear  lest  Roger  should  seek  her  advice  about  pro- 
curing a  divorce.  She  had  not  as  strong  preju- 
dices on  this  subjeat  as  many  New  Englanders, 
her  general  theory  being  that  people  who  are  too 
weak  to  bear  their  marital  troubles  and  spare  the 
world  the  sorry  exhibition  of  them,  may  be  excused 
for  seeking  a  formal  remedy ;  but  she  did  not  like 
to  class  her  friends  with  these. 

"  Are  you  coming  to  the  Plato  class  Friday  even- 
ing? "  she  asked,  turning  the  talk  to  a  safe  topic. 

"No." 

She  looked  at  him  in  a  little  surprise. 

"I  shall  not  be  in  town,"  he  added. 

She,  too,  was  accustomed  to  his  habit  of  fre- 
quent journeyings  from  home,  and  asked  nothing 
more  on  this  point  just  then,  her  mind  being  occu- 
pied with  something  else. 

"Then  I  am  giad  you  came  in.     I  want  some 


46  ROGER  HUNT. 

advice.  I  have  written  a  letter  to  Miss  Thaxter, 
asking  her  to  take  a  topic  next  month.  Do  you 
think  she  will  consent?" 

As  she  spoke  she  took  the  letter  from  the  table 
near  by,  sealed  and  directed,  then  dropped  it  back 
again,  resuming  her  work.  She  was  not  looking  at 
her  visitor,  and  did  not  see  the  burning  flush  that 
swept  over  his  face. 

"I  have  been  thinking  about  her  a  good  deal," 
she  went  on.  "She  interests  me.  She  is  intelli- 
gent. You  can  tell  that  by  the  way  she  listens; 
but  she  is  very  shy.  She  needs  drawing  out." 

Roger  covered  his  eyes  with  his  hand  to  hide  the 
intelligence  which  seemed  to  blaze  from  them.  His 
heart  beat  rapidly. 

"Then  you  like  her,"  he  said  at  last. 

"I  said  I  was  interested  in  her.  I  don't  permit 
myself  to  like  people  any  more  until  I  am  sure  of 
them,"  with  an  experienced  air.  "I  feel  sorry  for 
her.  George  says  he  does  n't  see  the  use  of  being 
sorry  for  people  until  we  're  asked,  but  I  can't  help 
it.  She  seems  so  alone,  some  way.  She  has  one  of 
those  faces  that  stay  by  you.  Don't  you  think  so?  " 

It  was  impossible  to  answer  such  a  question,  and 
he  drew  his  hand  several  times  over  his  own  face,  to 
compose  the  expression  tumultuous  feelings  within 
seemed  to  have  placed  there. 

"I  don't  believe  she  is  very  happily  situated  with 
her  brother  "  — 

"He  is  a  brute!" 

She  looked  up  at  him  in  surprise. 


ROGER  HUNT.  47 

"Do  you  know  him?  " 

He  made  some  indirect  reply. 

"Well,  I  don't  know  as  it  will  do  any  good,  but 
I  've  asked  her  to  give  us  something  on  the  Phsedo. 
I  hope  I  shan't  frighten  her." 

"Give  me  the  letter,"  said  Roger,  extending  his 
hand;  "I  will  post  it  for  you."  She  murmured 
something  about  not  troubling  him,  but  he  leaned 
forward  and  took  the  letter,  placing  it  in  his  inside 
pocket.  She  viewed  this  disappearance  with  fem- 
inine distrust,  born  of  unlucky  experience. 

"I'm  afraid  you'll  forget  it;"  but  he  assured 
her  he  would  not. 

"I  am  glad  you  like  her,"  he  added  with  a  hesi- 
tancy unusual  in  him.  "Two  such  women  as  you 
ought  to  be  friends." 

"Oh,  I  don't  know.  I  fancy  we  are  not  much 
alike;  Miss  Thaxter  is  one  of  the  timid,  depen- 
dent kind." 

"That  should  make  you  like  her  all  the  better," 
with  some  warmth. 

"Yes,  if  I  were  a  man.  Where  are  you  going?  " 
coming  back  to  the  subject  they  had  left.  He 
waited  a  moment  before  replying. 

"To  New  York."  He  paused,  then  added, 
"From  there  across  the  water." 

"Across  the  water!  Again?  You  went  abroad 
last  year!  " 

"  '  Abroad  '  is  the  only  place  for  a  man  like  me. 
I  can  breathe  over  there.  I  suffocate  here."  She 
knew  what  this  meant,  but  chose  to  disregard  it. 


48  ROGER  HUNT. 

"Happy  man!  "  she  exclaimed  enviously,  "who 
talks  of  a  trip  to  Europe  as  I  would  of  a  visit  to 
Boston!  When  will  George  and  I  go,  I  wonder. 
Will  you  take  little  Roger  with  you? " 

He  frowned. 

"I  think  you  ought,  Roger,"  speaking  more  se- 
riously. "Such  a  boy  needs  his  father."  His 
face  darkened  still  more. 

"He  has  his  precious  aunt,  and  doesn't  care  for 
his  father.  We  are  better  off  apart.  I  offered  to 
take  him  with  me,  but  he  declined,"  satirically. 

"  Nonsense !  What  does  a  child  like  that  know 
of  such  matters?  You  should  keep  him  with  you; 
he  would  do  you  good.  And  why  do  you  dislike 
Miss  Watson  so  much?  She  is  not  very  agreeable, 
I  know;  "  and  she  shrugged  her  shoulders  in  mem- 
ory of  the  single  visit  she  had  paid  Roger's  sis- 
ter-in-law, from  which  she  came  away  feeling,  as 
she  told  her  husband,  as  if  she  had  been  lunching 
on  an  iceberg.  "But  what  would  you  have  done 
without  her?  " 

"Hanged  myself,  perhaps,  and  so  escaped  worse 
misery." 

"I  see  you  are  in  one  of  your  black  moods." 

"No;  on  the  contrary  I  am  in  one  of  my  best. 
I  never  felt  stronger  or  happier  than  I  do  to-day." 
She  looked  at  him  attentively.  His  eyes  met  hers 
with  an  unfaltering,  yet  unfathomable  gaze  she 
long  remembered.  He  leaned  suddenly  towards 
her. 

"I  wish  I  dared  tell  you  something,"  he  said  im- 
petuously. 


ROGER  HUNT.  49 

"  If  you  dare  not  it  must  be  either  because  you 
do  not  trust  me  " 

"I  trust  you  always  —  up  to  a  certain  point." 

She  smiled,  rather  enjoying  a  home  thrust  of 
this  kind. 

"  Or  because  it  is  something  that  had  better  not 
be  told." 

This  was  not  so  encouraging,  and  he  fell  back  in 
his  chair  with  a  vexed  look  on  his  face. 

"You  disappoint  me  terribly  sometimes,"  he 
said.  "I  don't  suppose  you  realize  what  an  unfeel- 
ing remark  that  was." 

"A  wise  one,  though.  There  are  many  things 
that  had  better  remain  untold." 

"A  man  seeks  sympathy  in  a  woman,  not  wis- 
dom." 

"And  usually  gets  too  much  sympathy.  I  con- 
sider myself  born  to  counteract  the  general  ten- 
dency," holding  up  her  work  to  measure  its  length, 
then  letting  it  fall  into  her  lap  again.  "I  give  my 
friends  what  I  think  they  need,  not  what  they  want. 
If  my  judgment  fails  "  — 

"It  is  your  heart  that  fails." 

"It  is  time  men  leariied  to  value  women  for 
something  besides  what  they  call  'heart.'  But  let 
us  come  back  to  our  muttons.  What  are  you  go- 
ing to  Europe  for  ?  " 

"That  is  part  of  the  'thing  that  had  better  not 
be  told,'  "  ironically.  She  looked  at  him  now  with 
some  anxiety. 

"Roger,  what  are  you  going  to  do?" 


50  ROGER  HUNT. 

"Something  you  will  mightily  disapprove  of." 

"Is  —  is  it  about  Annie?  " 

"I  wish  I  might  never  hear  her  name  again." 

"Koger,  that  is  wicked,  and  perfectly  senseless 
besides.  Why  are  you  so  rebellious?  It  is  so 
unworthy  of  you.  I  don't  say  you  have  not  suf- 
fered, have  not  been  wronged  even,  but  you  make 
everything  harder  for  yourself.  You  think  only 
of  how  you  can  escape  things.  We  are  not  put 
here  to  escape  but  to  bear  things." 

"You  may  talk  that  kind  of  pious  cant  to  those 
who  believe  it.  As  for  her  "  —  his  face  darkening 
again. 

"  Roger,  hush !  You  loved  her  once.  Think 
what  a  child  she  was  !  She  was  not  wicked,  only 
weak.  Such  things  are  a  disease.  Oh,  I  have 
blamed  myself  a  thousand  times  that  I  did  not  go 
to  her  at  once  and  help  her.  No  one  tried  to  help 
her.  I  am  not  blaming  you,"  in  reply  to  some 
word  of  angry  interruption  from  him. 

"I  loved  her,  as  you  say,"  with  a  proud  look, 
"and  she  killed  my  love." 

"Yes,  yes,  I  know,"  feeling  it  useless  to  argue 
this  point. 

"And  when  love  is  dead,  marriage  is  dead." 

She  shook  her  head.  "  There  is  where  you  make 
a  fatal  mistake,  Roger.  Love  is  the  only  reason 
for  entering  marriage,  but  is  only  one  for  continu- 
ing in  it." 

"You  are  growing  very  subtle." 

"  I  only  believe  that  in  marriage  as  in  everything 


ROGER  HUNT.  51 

else  we  must  be  willing  to  abide  the  consequences  of 
our  own  actions.  We  cannot  take  people  into  our 
lives,  and  then  thrust  them  out,  because  they  are 
not  everything  our  first  fancy  pictured." 

"I  was  deceived."  She  regarded  him  with  a 
mournful  smile. 

"Don't  think  I  do  not  feel  for  you  too,"  she  re- 
plied, "but,  Roger,  don't  you  see,  it  is  those  who 
are  weak  and  go  wrong  who  need  our  help  most, 
not  those  who  only  suffer  from  others'  wrong-doing. 
You  think  you  are  the  chief  sufferer,  that  your  life 
has  been  wrecked,  but  it  is  only  the  sense  of  blame 
in  ourselves  brings  real  suffering.  It  is  her  life 
that  is  wrecked." 

"I  was  mistaken  in  saying  you  had  no  sym- 
pathy," he  said  coldly.  "You  have,  but  not  for 
me." 

"  It  is  for  both,  but  you  are  the  stronger ;  you 
need  less  than  she  does.  Think  how  many  re- 
sources of  happiness  are  still  left  you." 

"You  think  the  man  who  falls  into  a  pit  deserves 
less  compassion  than  the  one  who  dug  it  for  him?" 

"One  has  physical  hurts  to  heal,  the  other 
moral,"  she  said  softly. 

"That 's  all  very  fine,  but  what  man  has  deeper 
moral  hurts  than  mine?" 

"I  speak  of  the  moral  hurts  caused  by  our  own 
mistakes,  but  I  see  I  have  offended  you." 

"No;  only  disappointed." 

"It's  the  same  thing,  I  fear,"  with  a  rueful 
smile. 


52  ROGER  HUNT. 

"No,"  after  a  pause.  "I  choose  not  to  be  of- 
fended. I  want  to  part  friends,"  rising  and  extend- 
ing his  hand. 

"Part?  Oh,  yes;  but  you  have  not  told  me  why 
you  are  going." 

"Why?"  He  bent  a  pair  of  large  reproachful 
eyes  on  her  in  which  a  gleam  of  defiance  flashed 
out. 

"  Say  it  is  because  I  think  the  guilty  alone  should 
bear  the  penalty  of  their  misdeeds;  that  the  man 
who  has  fallen  into  the  pit  need  not  go  forever 
maimed  and  disfigured  in  consequence  "  — 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"  Say  it  is  because  life  is  too  rich  and  sweet  for 
a  man  not  to  profit  by  all  his  chances  of  happiness, 
and  because  Roger  Hunt  means  to  let  no  human 
creature  or  circumstance  debar  him  from  his  natural 
rights.  Now  your  disapproval  of  me  is  heightened 
tenfold,  I  suppose." 

"My  bewilderment  certainly  is.  Roger,"  with 
that  anxious  note  again  in  her  voice,  "are  —  are 
you  going  to  get  a  divorce?" 

He  laughed  'scornfully.  "  What  do  I  want  with 
a  divorce  ?  If  you  knew  in  what  contempt  I  hold 
all  man-made  regulations  on  some  things  " 

"There,  there  !  no  more  wild  talk,"  breathing 
more  freely. 

"I  think  you  are  not  feeling  very  well,"  she 
went  on,  dropping  back  to  the  commonplace,  "and 
I  hope  the  sea  voyage  will  do  you  good." 

"  Thank  you ;  those  words  are  very  suitable ;  but 


ROGER  HUNT.  53 

when  a  starving  man  comes  to  your  door,  you 
should  give  him  something  more  than  a  clean  nap- 
kin and  a  silver  teaspoon." 

"I  will  give  you  more  when  I  find  out  what  it  is 
you  want." 

"What  I  want  I  shall  take." 

"That  is  what  the  house  burglar  does." 

"I  am  not  afraid  of  your  comparisons,"  and  he 
looked,  she  afterward  remembered,  as  if  he  were 
afraid  of  nothing.  "The  house  burglar  has  not 
my  motive." 

"I  don't  know,  I  am  sure,"  shaking  her  head 
wearily.  "He  wants  what  doesn't  belong  to  him." 

"  Precisely  !  And  I  want  what  does  belong  to 
me,  what  nature  and  reason  say  I  have  a  right  to, 
what  no  one  but  a  coward  would  hesitate  to  take. 
I  puzzle  you  more  than  ever,  I  see.  But  I  free  all 
my  friends  from  responsibility.  Remember,"  with 
a  glance  at  his  gift  lying  on  the  table,  "you  have 
my  permission  to  rub  out  the  name  whenever  you 
like." 

"You  deserve  I  should  do  so  now."  She  fol- 
lowed him  to  the  outer  door. 

"  Good-by,"  he  said,  turning  and  taking  her  hand 
again. 

"It  is  a  real  'good-by,'  then?"  she  asked  with 
an  incredulous  smile.  He  deliberated  a  moment. 

"  That  is  for  you  to  say.  What  will  you  say,  I 
wonder,"  bending  that  same  inscrutable  look  on 
her.  "You  are  the  most  courageous  woman  I 
know,  but,  after  all,  that  is  not  saying  much." 


54  ROGER  HUNT. 

"No,  not  much." 

"And  so,  I  fear  it  is  a  real  'good-by,'  but  it  is 
for  you  to  say  —  for  you  to  say,"  and  he  released 
her  hand  and  passed  through  the  door. 

Afterward,  when  she  looked  back  on  this  visit, 
she  said  to  herself,  after  her  first  indignation  over 
its  presumption  had  passed,  that  it  was  like  Roger 
Hunt  to  talk  and  act  in  this  way,  he  who  was  al- 
ways playing  with  fire,  and  was  bent  on  developing 
all  the  dramatic  possibilities  of  every  situation  in 
which  he  was  placed.  She  went  back  to  the  li- 
brary more  weary  than  excited  over  the  discussion 
that  had  just  ended.  It  could  not  be  anything 
very  bad  that  he  was  going  to  do,  if  he  did  not 
mean  to  get  a  divorce.  It  was  only  fair,  she 
thought,  he  should  praise  her  courage.  It  required 
some  to  be  the  friend  of  such  a  man. 


V. 

WHEN  Sarah  Watson  learned  what  had  hap- 
pened, she  felt  that  the  sum  of  her  undeserved 
wrongs  was  now  complete.  A  bitter  moral  wrath 
possessed  her.  She  resented  all  attempts  at  con- 
dolence or  assistance  from  others,  encasing  herself 
in  a  cold  inflexibility  of  manner  that  aroused  a 
feeling  of  sympathy  for  Hunt.  Calling  the  boy  to 
her  in  her  room,  she  placed  him  before  her  and 
fixed  her  stern  eyes  upon  him,  not  to  frighten  him, 
only  to  compel  attention.  She  began,  after  the 
order  of  the  Catechism,  by  asking  him  his  name. 
He  was  used  to  her  manner  and  looked  at  her 
thoughtfully,  with  eyes  much  like  her  own. 

"  My  name  is  Roger  Hunt.  '  Roger  Hunt,  Jun- 
ior,'  I  write  it  at  school." 

"You  will  write  it  'Roger  Hunt,  Junior'  no 
more." 

He  looked  at  her  with  a  puzzled  frown.  "  Why 
not?" 

"Because  there  is  a  Roger  Hunt,  Senior,"  was 
the  brief  reply.  He  gathered  her  meaning  more 
from  her  manner  than  her  words. 

"My  father  has  done  something  that  displeases 
you,"  he  said  at  length,  with  the  uuchildish  gravity 
that  marked  him. 


56  ROGER  HUNT. 

"You  have  no  father.  He  has  disgraced  us  all ! 
He  is  a  false,  bad  man  !  Men  have  been  impris- 
oned and  locked  behind  iron  bars  for  doing  what 
he  has  done !  "  The  boy  turned  pale  and  trembled. 
The  speaker  was  shaking  with  anger,  and  the  look 
in  her  face  frightened  him. 

"Do  you  mean  you  will  have  my  father  impris- 
oned?" 

"No.  He  has  nothing  to  fear  from  me.  Let 
him  go  his  way.  Your  father  has  given  you  to 
me."  She  placed  her  hands  on  his  shoulders  and 
looked  at  him  with  burning  eyes.  "  Hereafter  your 
name  is  not  Roger  Hunt,  but  Charles  Watson." 

"That  was  my  grandfather's  name,"  the  boy  re- 
plied, his  mind  unable  to  take  in  all  that  had  been 
said,  and  fastening  itself  on  the  last  words.  As 
he  spoke,  he  lifted  his  eyes  to  a  portrait  that  hung 
above  the  mantel,  done  in  dark-colored  oils,  that 
shadowed  forth  the  figure  of  an  old,  stern-faced 
man. 

"And  your  grandfather  was  a  good  man.  He 
would  have  scorned  to  do  what  your  father  has 
done.  He  had  right  opinions  about  everything. 
Men  respected  and  feared  him." 

"What  is  it  my  father  has  done?"  the  boy  asked 
more  composedly.  His  first  alarm  was  passing 
away,  this  reference  to  his  father's  opinions  reas- 
suring him  a  little.  The  latter  had  made  some  un- 
pleasant remarks  about  the  missionary  society,  per- 
haps, or  did  not  approve  of  hot  cakes  for  supper. 
When  his  aunt  explained  what  had  happened,  not 


ROGER  HUNT.  57 

all  the  details,  but  sufficiently,  he  grew  more  seri- 
ous. 

"Shall  we  be  poor?"  he  asked,  "and  have  to 
work  for  a  living  ?  Is  that  the  reason  we  are  going 
away  from  this  house?  Am  I  not  to  have  the  new 
pony  I  was  promised?"  The  meaning  of  the  new 
state  of  things  began  to  dawn  on  him.  and  he 
looked  ready  to  cry. 

"You  shall  have  the  pony,"  the  other  replied, 
with  a  shade  less  of  hardness  in  her  tones,  "but  we 
shall  go  far  away  from  this  place." 

"To  Milton?" 

"No,"  a  spasm  of  pain  contracting  her  face. 
"Much  farther  —  to  some  place  where  nobody 
knows  us." 

The  boy  showed  no  signs  either  of  grief  or  plea- 
sure at  the  thought  of  leaving  his  home,  which  was 
to  him  a  place  with  four  walls,  like  any  other. 

Miss  Watson  and  her  young  charge  went  away 
quietly  a  few  days  later,  and  when  their  departure 
was  discovered,  no  one  knew  in  what  direction  they 
had  gone,  not  even  Mr.  Somers,  with  whom  she 
had  been  in  business  relations.  The  latter  could 
explain  nothing  to  his  wife  save  the  fact  of  her 
legal  adoption  of  the  boy,  and  his  change  of  name. 

"She  had  no  right  to  do  that,"  said  Mrs.  Som- 
ers warmly. 

"She  had  a  perfect  right  to  do  it." 

"Oh,  legal  right,  perhaps,"  tossing  her  head  in 
feminine  scorn  for  this  literality,  "but  she  had  no 
moral  right.  The  boy  is  his  father's  child,  what 
ever  happens." 


58  ROGER  HUNT. 

"I'm  afraid  that  is  true,  but  you  can't  blame 
her  for  wanting  to  cover  up  the  fact  as  much  as 
possible." 

"One  would  think  you  sympathized  wholly  with 
her.  She  is  a  dreadful  woman,  I  think." 
.  Mrs.  Somers  had  been  among  those  who  had 
gone  to  Miss  Watson's  assistance  and  been  coldly 
repelled.  The  latter  felt  she  must  be  reduced,  in- 
deed, to  accept  help  from  any  of  her  brother-in» 
law's  friends.  There  was  a  more  practical  ques- 
tion in  the  wife's  mind. 

"Did  she  leave  her  business  in  your  hands  ?" 

"No,"  with  a  humiliated  flush.  "She  has  with- 
drawn it.  I  'm  sure  we  can't  blame  her.  No 
wonder  she  wants  to  cut  loose  from  all  of  Hunt's 
friends." 

"Friends!  Does  she  think  we  are  his  friends, 
that  we  uphold  him  in  a  thing  like  this?" 

"I  don't  know  what  she  thinks.  I  know  I  feel 
as  if  I  had  committed  a  dozen  crimes  myself,  and 
was  still  at  large  preying  on  society.  If  those  two 
suffer  half  the  remorse  I  do  in  this  business,  they  '11 
be  sufficiently  punished.  But  I  've  washed  my 
hands  of  the  affair.  I  've  written  Hunt  and  told 
him  to  put  his  business  in  some  one  else's  hands." 

"You  have!"  in  a  startled  tone.  Then  after 
reflecting  a  moment,  "I  don't  know  whether  I  ap- 
prove of  that  or  not." 

"Of  course  you  don't.,  I  knew  you  would  n't, 
and  that  you  'd  want  a  week  at  least  to  find  out. 
That 's  the  reason  I  posted  the  letter  on  my  way 


ROGER  HUNT.  59 

home."    She  scarcely  heard  this  sarcasm,  her  mind 

darting  quickly  to  take  in  another  feature  of  the 

case. 

"It  will  make  a  difference,  won't  it?" 

"A  difference?"    Then,  as  her  meaning  dawned 

on  him,   "Yes,   it  will  make  a  difference."     She 

was  thinking  of  their  income. 

"And  Roger  Hunt  talks  of  consequences  falling 

on  the  guilty  alone,"  she  thought.      Aloud,  — 
"Then  of  course  you  did  right  to  give  it  up." 
With  all  her  strong-mindedness,  Kitty  Somers 

had  the  usual  feminine  appetite  for  self-immolation. 
"Well,  that  isn't  just  the  way  I  got  at  it,  but 

it  makes  no  difference,  so  we  are  agreed." 

"Those  two,"  as  George  Somers  had  character- 
ized them,  were  sitting  at  that  moment  on  the  deck 
of  a  Liverpool  steamer  within  twenty-four  hours  of 
land. 

They  had  met  at  the  place  agreed  on,  traveling 
thence  to  New  York  together.  From  the  first 
Roger  had  been  in  his  most  joyous  and  confident 
mood,  so  that  Eleanor,  full  of  palpitating  fears, 
looked  at  him  with  increasing  wonder.  He  was, 
however,  under  as  intense  excitement  as  she,  which 
in  him  demanded  an  active  outlet,  keeping  him 
restlessly  busy,  and  watchful  of  the  smallest  event 
and  circumstance  connected  with  their  journey. 
As  the  trip  by  rail  drew  to  its  end,  her  first  anx- 
iety began  to  abate,  and  she  fell  into  a  lethargic 
state  in  which  all  thought  was  for  a  time  dead- 


60  EOGER  HUNT. 

ened.  An  atmosphere  of  constant  protecting  kind- 
ness surrounded  her,  of  delicate  attention  and  care, 
that  charmed  the  imagination  almost  as  much  as  it 
warmed  the  heart. 

Her  life  had  been  bare  and  lonely,  bereft  of  al- 
most all  graceful  and  kindly  service  from  others, 
and  little  attentions  which  other  women  would  have 
received  without  notice  touched  her  inexpressibly. 
Before  this  she  had  lived  only  in  the  background  of 
other  people's  affairs,  been  a  silent  spectator  at  the 
feast  of  life  which  nobody  had  expected  her  to 
share.  Here  in  this  new  world  she  had  so  daringly 
entered,  she  found  herself  in  the  place  of  both  centre 
and  circumference.  Roger  was  more  marvelously 
kind,  thoughtful,  and  loving  than  even  she  had 
dreamed  he  could  be.  Somewhat  of  her  feelings 
shone  in  the  warm,  grateful  look  she  gave  him  as 
he  left  her  for  a  few  moments'  rest  towards  night- 
fall, after  arranging  her  shawl  and  pillow  with  a 
woman's  skill. 

"How  good  he  is,  "she  murmured  to  herself,  and 
kept  repeating  the  thought  in  her  mind,  clinging 
to  arid  supporting  herself  with  it.  In  some  way 
she  could  not  fathom,  this  goodness  must  stand  for 
Tightness,  she  thought ;  at  least,  if  there  was  a  dif- 
ference, she  had  not  yet  learned  it. 

"He  is  good  to  everybody,"  she  added  in  dream- 
ful reverie,  recalling  an  incident  of  their  day's  jour- 
ney together. 

Among  their  fellow-passengers  was  a  woman  with 
a  sick  child,  whose  fretful  crying  disturbed  every 


ROGER  HUNT.  61 

one  in  the  car,  and  had  nearly  worn  out  the  mother. 
Roger  and  Eleanor  watched  her  sympathetically  for 
some  time.  At  last  Roger  sprang  to  his  feet. 

"I  'm  going  to  help  that  woman,"  he  said,  and 
stepped  towards  her.  Reaching  her  side  he  held 
out  his  arms  to  the  little  one.  "Let  me  take  her," 
he  said  kindly.  ""You  are  tired."  , 

The  woman  looked  up  at  him  gratefully.  "If 
she  will  go  to  you." 

Children  would  by  no  means  always  go  to  him, 
nor  was  he  profuse  in  invitations  of  this  kind;  but 
in  this  case  the  child  looked  at  him  gravely  a  min- 
ute, then  reached  up  its  arms  confidingly.  The 
mother  sighed  the  relief  she  felt,  and  Roger  took 
his  charge  to  another  seat  and  held  it  quietly  in  his 
arms  until  it  fell  asleep.  Had  Mrs.  Somers  wit- 
nessed this  scene  she  would  have  shown  no  surprise, 
her  familiarity  with  others  of  a  similar  nature  hav- 
ing prompted  the  remark  to  Mrs.  Hamilton  that 
Roger  Hunt  was  one  of  the  kindest  men  she  knew. 
To  Eleanor,  who  was  watching  him,  this  act 
seemed  one  of  heavenly  goodness. 

Roger  carried  the  sleeping  child  back  to  its 
mother  and  laid  it  gently  down  on  the  opposite  seat, 
politely  waived  the  woman's  thanks,  then  went 
back  to  his  place  at  Eleanor's  side. 

"That  was  very  good  in  you,"  she  said  looking 
at  him  affectionately.  "I  feel  as  if  I  had  a  new 
proof  of  you.  They  say  children  are  always  cor- 
rect judges  of  character." 

"That    is    a    pretty   superstition,"   he    replied 


62  ROGER  HUNT. 

lightly.  "Children's  judgments  are  as  whimsical 
as  grown  people's,"  he  added,  with  a  smile.  "I 
don't  know  as  you  could  say  anything  worse  of 
them.  But  I  care  very  little  about  people's  opin- 
ions of  me.  What  I  value  is  their  feeling  for  me, 
—  especially  somebody's,"  he  added,  in  a  lower 
tone,  and  with  an  expressive  glance  that  brought 
the  color  to  her  cheek. 

"Then  if  my  opinion  changes  some  day,  you  will 
not  complain?  "  she  answered  with  a  faint  smile. 

"  Think  what  you  please  about  me,  only  continue 
to  love  me." 

She  looked  as  if  that  would  be  easy,  yet  a  little 
doubtful,  too. 

"Does  not  love  spring  from  the  sense  of  worth 
in  its  object  ?  " 

"Not  necessarily.  Love  is  its  own  excuse  for 
being,  like  beauty.  Love  is  better  understood 
without  analysis,  or  rather  it  is  not  necessary  to 
understand  love  at  all,  only  to  admit  its  power  and 
reap  its  rewards." 

"That  sounds  very  daring." 

"Those  who  love  must  be  willing  to  dare  many 
things." 

This  brought  them  back  to  the  knowledge  of 
where  they  were  and  what  they  were  doing.  The 
old  fluttering  anxiety  came  over  her. 

"Have  they  found  out  about  it  yet?"  she  asked 
in  a  whisper. 

"  No,  it  will  not  be  known  for  two  days  yet.  By 
that  time  we  shall  have  been  twelve  hours  out  to 


ROGER  HUNT.  63 

sea."  He  looked  at  her  wtih  strong,  confident  eyes. 
"Are  you  afraid?" 

Her  eyes  fell  and  a  tremulous  sigh  escaped  her. 
She  slipped  her  hand,  which  was  cold,  into  his. 
"I  am  yours." 

"Think  no  more  of  it,"  he  said,  reassuringly. 
"The  thing  is  done." 

"Yes,  it  is  done.  I  —  I  do  not  regret.  I  only 
want  to  make  you  happy.  I  can  do  that  better 
when  we  are  —  by  ourselves." 

The  last  words  betrayed  the  nervous  apprehen- 
sion, mingled  with  a  sickening  sense  of  shame, 
from  which  she  suffered,  and  which  she  should  be 
free  from,  she  thought,  when  beyond  the  possible 
chance  of  meeting  any  one  who  might  recognize 
them.  Roger  could  not  fail  to  share  the  first  feel- 
ing, to  some  extent,  though  he  did  not  let  her  see 
it. 

On  board  the  steamer  he  hastily  scanned  the  pas- 
senger list,  and  returned  to  her  with  a  triumphant 
air. 

"We  are  as  much  alone  as  if  we  were  the  only 
ones  on  board.  The  rest  are  Western  people,  with 
a  lot  of  theatrical  folks'." 

She  heard  him  with  relief,  but  the  sense  of 
shame  had  not  departed ;  the  hour  of  complete  con- 
tent was  still  delayed.  Though  the  eyes  that  met 
hers  were  those  of  entire  strangers,  they  disturbed 
her  in  a  new  way ;  their  careless  talk  fell  discord- 
antly on  her  ear.  She  was  glad  she  did  not  es- 
cape the  affliction  of  seasickness  which  kept  her  in 


64  ROGER  HUNT. 

her  stateroom  during  most  of  the  voyage.  Once 
across  the  water,  half  the  globe's  distance  between 
them  and  their  former  home,  alone  with  Roger, 
with  only  him  to  think  about,  she  should  be  happy, 
these  strange,  undefined  alarms  would  disappear. 

Roger  was  perfectly  well.  He  was  an  experi- 
enced traveler,  and  the  free  life  on  board  ship 
suited  him  perfectly.  The  broad  expanse  of  sea 
and  sky  matched  his  boundless  thoughts.  The  in- 
dependent solitariness  of  these  days  in  mid-ocean 
had  for  him  an  inexpressible  charm.  It  was  a  dis- 
appointment to  him,  aside  from  his  concern  for 
her,  that  Eleanor  did  not  bear  the  voyage  better. 
He  went  into  the  stateroom  at  frequent  intervals  to 
look  after  her,  busied  himself  with  loving  cares  and 
devices  to  relieve  her  suffering,  but  something  in 
her  looks,  as  she  lay  white  and  wan  on  her  pillow, 
baffled  him.  He  tried  to  persuade  her  to  rise  and 
go  out  with  him  on  deck,  but  she  put  him  off  day 
after  day,  and  gently  resisted  him.  He  was  a 
more  patient  man  with  those  he  loved  than  with 
others,  but  he  could  poorly  brook  opposition  even 
here ;  and,  convinced  that  she  was  pursuing  exactly 
the  wrong  course,  felt  obliged  at  last  to  express 
his  disapproval,  not  harshly  but  plainly. 

"Oh,  I  know  I  am  disappointing  you,"  she  cried 
out,  after  one  of  these  attempts  of  his,  making  an 
ineffectual  effort  to  rise,  and  sinking  weakly  back, 
the  tears  rolling  down  her  cheeks.  "  I  am  nothing 
but  a  care  to  you,  I  never  shall  be." 

He  took  her  in  his  arms,  quieting  and  comforting 


ROGER  HUNT.  65 

her.  His  touch  and  presence  gave  her  new 
strength  always,  and  she  would  not  let  him  leave 
her.  Anxious  to  please  him  she  made  another 
effort,  and  rising  let  him  lead  her  into  the  open 
air.  He  found  a  sheltered  place  for  her,  covered 
her  with  rugs,  and  placed  himself  at  her  side. 

"Now,  isn't  this  glorious!  "  he  exclaimed  in  ex- 
ultant tones,  his  face  aglow  with  boyish  delight  in 
the  scene.  It  was  a  faultless  day,  though  the  sea- 
son was  late,  one  that  retained  a  hint  of  Indian 
summer  softness  even  in  mid-ocean;  with  a  clear 
sky,  brilliant  sunshine,  and  sparkling  foam-crests 
on  every  side.  She  looked  at  him  with  a  smile, 
happy  in  his  enjoyment. 

"You  like  the  sea?" 

"More  than  anything  else.  I  ought  to  have 
been  a  sailor." 

"Those  I  have  seen  have  not  pleased  me  very 
much.  I  like  you  better  as  you  are." 

"Oh,  not  a  sailor  of  to-day,  with  its  palatial 
steamboats  and  gentlemanly  captains ;  but  one  of 
Drake's  or  Captain  Kidd's  times.  I  should  have 
made  a  splendid  pirate." 

"Like  Byron's  Corsair?"  she  asked  with  the 
same  shadowy  smile,  trying  to  enter  into  his  mood. 

"Yes,  with  Medora  in  her  island  tower,"  was  the 
quick  response,  leaning  fondly  towards  her.  She 
flushed  a  little. 

"Medora's  fate  was  not  a  happy  one." 

"A  fig  for  Byron  as  a  reader  of  human  destiny; 
a  man  with  only  the  impulse,  not  the  will,  to  exe- 


66  ROGER  HUNT. 

cute  any  of  his  purposes ;  a  poor,  whining  misan- 
thrope, at  best." 

She  reflected  on  this  a  moment. 

''What  a  worshiper  you  are  of  the  human  will," 
she  said  at  last.  A 

"Why  not?  It  is  the  one  thing  that  allies  man 
to  the  gods,  the  foundation  of  all  character." 

"What  becomes,  then,  of  the  Christian  virtues 
of  resignation  and  submission?  "  she  asked  with  a 
little  anxiety. 

"They  are  left  for  the  Christians  to  practice.  I 
never  was  one,  you  know."  He  flashed  one  of  his 
bright,  daring  smiles  at  her  as  he  said  this.  She 
was  accustomed  to  hear  sentiments  of  this  bold 
nature  drop  from  his  lips,  and  seemed  in  no  way 
startled,  though  not  quite  satisfied. 

"  Surely  it  is  necessary  for  all  of  us  to*  practice 
them  to  some  extent." 

"Oh,  in  the  arrangement  of  details,  very  likely; 
but  there  is  only  one  condition  of  happiness,  and 
that  is  liberty."  He  bent  his  deep,  brilliant  eyes 
on  her. 

It  had  often  seemed  to  her,  as  she  looked  into 
those  luminous  depths,  that  a  beautiful  spirit  looked 
out  in  turn,  incarnated  for  a  time  in  flesh,  but  own- 
ing no  law  save  its  own  free  impulse,  which  moral 
innocence  rendered  safe.  For  it  was  part  of  the 
strange  dominion  Roger  Hunt  had  over  those  who 
believed  in  him,  that  this  effect  of  innocence  re- 
mained even  during  his  most  lawless  behavior. 
This  was  seen  in  the  efforts  of  friends  like  Mrs. 


ROGER  HUNT.  67 

Somers  to  excuse  and  defend  him,  and  was  doubt- 
less due  to  the  absence  of  anything  like  grossness 
in  his  nature.  Whatever  his  sins,  diseased  appetite 
did  not  form  their  motive.  He  was  a  man  to  whom 
all  forms  of  mere  physical  indulgence  were  abhor- 
rent, one  whose  good  taste  would  often  keep  him 
safe  where  his  principles  failed. 

"It  is  too  large  and  daring  a  thought  for  me," 
Eleanor  replied  to  his  last  words.  "I  feel  as  if  I 
were  riding  a  whirlwind  when  I  try  to  master  it. 
It  tires  me.  I  am  not  so  strong  as  you.  You  will 
have  to  be  strong  enough  for  us  both." 

What  lover  is  insensible  to  an  appeal  like  this? 
This  clinging  dependence  seemed  adorable  to  Roger 
in  the  first  flush  of  the  strong  manful  wish  to  shield 
and  direct  it.  He  bent  over  her  with  words  of  rap- 
turous tenderness. 

Some  of  the  passengers  noticed  them,  and  opin- 
ion was  confirmed  that  this  was  a  newly  wedded 
pair,  or  an  unusually  attached  one,  traveling,  it 
seemed  plain,  for  the  invalid  wife's  health.  Their 
wish  to  keep  by  themselves  had  been  too  manifest 
not  to  be  respected,  the  two  winning  much  sympa- 
thetic admiration  meanwhile,  Eleanor  for  her  deli- 
cate beauty  and  physical  weakness,  and  Roger  for 
his  devotion  to  her. 

Roger  had,  however,  been  drawn  into  slight  ac- 
quaintance, during  Eleanor's  confinement  to  her 
berth,  with  two  of  his  fellow-passengers,  a  young 
married  couple  from  Denver ;  the  woman  a  bright, 
animated  young  creature  fidl  of  the  novelty  and 


68  ROGER  HUNT. 

excitement  of  her  first  trip  across  the  ocean,  the 
man,  her  masculine  appendage,  big,  slow-witted 
and  bashful. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Frank  Devine,  Roger  gave  their 
names  to  Eleanor,  as  the  two  passed  them  in  their 
daily  promenade  on  deck,  the  lady  bowing  to  him 
with  a  smile,  and  turning  her  eyes  with  kindly  in- 
terest on  Eleanor,  while  the  two  men  touched  their 
hats. 

"She  is  coming  to  speak  with  you,"  Roger  said. 

"No,  no,"  exclaimed  Eleanor,  "Take  me  below, 
Roger.  I  can't  see  them." 

"  Hush,"  he  said,  for  they  were  drawing  near.  At 
the  same  time,  however,  he  removed  the  rugs  and 
assisted  Eleanor  to  rise,  drawing  her  hand  through 
his  arm,  and  steadying  her  a  moment  on  her  feet. 
The  motion  of  the  vessel  and  the  dread  of  speaking 
with  strangers  made  her  deadly  pale. 

"Ah,  Mr.  Hunt,  this  is  a  magnificent  day,  is  it 
not?"  a  fresh  and  musical  voice  spoke  in  his  ear 
the  next  instant,  while  its  owner  bent  another  look 
of  friendly  interest  on  his  companion  and  waited 
to  be  presented,  her  husband  standing  near  and 
looking  ill  at  ease. 

Roger  made  some  suitable  reply,  meantime  be- 
stowing a  warning  pressure  on  Eleanor's  hand, 
and  looking  at  her  steadily  a  moment  as  if  further 
to  prepare  her,  before  he  spoke  the  words  which 
gave  the  first  public  sanction  to  their  stolen  rela- 
tion. He  did  not  use  the  phrase  "my  wife."  It 
was  not  necessary  to  stretch  conscience  in  the  tell- 


ROGER  HUNT.  69 

ing  of  a  falsehood  so  severely  as  that,  and  Roger 
had  persuaded  himself  such  words  contained  no 
special  meaning  or  merit  for  either  of  them.  He 
contented  himself  with  the  formal  mention  of 
names;  but  when  Eleanor  heard  herself  called 
"Mrs.  Hunt,"  a  vivid  flush  overspread  her  face, 
and  retreating,  left  it  almost  ghastly.  It  was  as 
if  some  one  had  suddenly  hissed  "Liar!  Cheat!" 
into  her  ears.  A  sick  and  dizzy  feeling  nearly 
overcame  her,  and  Roger,  hurriedly  making  ex- 
cuses for  her,  led  her  below.  If  he  guessed  the 
emotions  which  were  really  disturbing  her  he  ig- 
nored them,  assigning  only  physical  causes  to  this 
new  attack  of  weakness,  and  assisting  her  back  to 
her  berth.  Shame  and  dread  kept  her  own  lips 
sealed,  and  they  spoke,  when  at  all,  on  indifferent 
themes. 

"Who  are  they?  "  she  asked  after  some  mention 
of  their  new  acquaintances,  and  lying  quietly  on 
her  pillow. 

Roger  told  her  the  little  that  he  knew.  "  It  is 
easy  enough  to  read  the  story  of  that  marriage,"  he 
added. 

She  asked  him  why. 

"He  married  a  pretty  face,  and  she,  money," 
was  the  reply.  "They  have  n't  an  idea  in  common. 
He  thinks  of  nothing  but  stocks,  and  already  feels 
himself  in  the  way  when  in  his  wife's  presence. 
She  is  trying  to  cover  up  her  disappointment  by 
cultivating  the  arts." 

"Where  are  they  going?  " 


70  ROGER  HUNT. 

"  '  Where  is  she  going?'  you  mean.  To  Ger- 
many, to  study  music." 

"And  what  will  he  do?" 

"  See  her  comfortably  settled,  then  go  back  home 
to  make  more  money  for  her  to  spend  in  ways  he 
cannot  share.  And  there  are  people  who  profess 
to  respect  such  a  union  as  that,  who  call  it  holy, 
who  would  think  it  a  crime  if  any  one  laid  hands 
on  it;  while  ours,"  he  bent  over  and  half  raised 
her  in  his  arms,  "ours  they  would  call  wicked  and 
impure.  Fools  !  let  them  say  what  they  like.  We 
know  it  is  false.  If  love  like  ours,"  bending  and 
kissing  her  with  all  a  lover's  warmth,  "if  love  like 
ours  be  not  its  own  justification,  as  true  as  heaven 
and  as  right,  then  the  whole  of  life  is  a  lie."  He 
spoke  with  that  passionate  fervor  which  always 
thrilled  and  convinced  her. 

"Yes,  yes,"  she  murmured,  "it  is  the  true  life 
we  are  trying  to  lead.  Love  must  be  the  true 
guide." 

"Spoken  like  my  own  brave  Eleanor,"  and  he 
folded  her  more  closely  in  his  arms,  sealing  his 
praise  with  another  kiss;  then,  laying  her  gently 
back  on  the  pillow,  left  her. 

"God  will  forgive  us  when  he  knows,"  her 
thoughts  ran  on,  prayer-like,  when  she  was  alone. 
"  He  knows  how  Roger  has  suffered,  how  much  he 
needs  me.  Oh,  help  me  to  be  true  to  him,  to  be 
strong  for  his  sake,  to  make  him  happy." 

Does  it  strike  any  one  strangely  that  one  so  far 
astray  should  clothe  her  thoughts  in  the  form  of 


ROGER  HUNT.  71 

religious  aspiration,  still  dare  raise  her  petition  for 
divine  aid?  Devoutness  of  purpose  is  not  to  be 
measured  by  an  erring  judgment,  and  a  soul  may 
retain  all  its  innate  purity  even  when  committing 
so  grave  a  fault  as  Eleanor's. 


VI. 

ELEANOR  THAXTER  knew  but  little  of  the  world. 
From  childhood  she  had  been  unhappily  situated, 
first  in  a  home  provided  by  an  uncongenial  step- 
father, afterwards  in  her  brother's  family,  where 
poor  health  obliged  her  to  remain,  though  she 
knew  her  presence  was  accounted  a  burden.  She 
was  not  a  gifted  woman,  and  but  indifferently  ed- 
ucated, according  to  present  standards,  but  her 
lonely  life  and  a  brooding  disposition  had  led  her 
to  think  deeply  if  not  clearly  on  many  things.  She 
had  the  rare  gift  of  sympathy. 

Up  to  the  time  of  her  introduction  to  the  Plato 
class,  her  life  in  Xenophon  had  been  dull  and  soli- 
tary, making  her  acquaintance  with  Roger  Hunt 
run  along  with  a  newly  awakened  mental  life ;  and 
it  was  with  that  mixture  of  pride  and  humility  with 
which  women  acknowledge  debts  of  this  kind,  she 
looked  up  to  this  new  friend.  There  had  been  a 
strong  mutual  attraction  between  the  two  from  the 
first  which  neither  had  greatly  tried  to  resist,  and 
which  in  natures  like  theirs  comes  to  acquire  a 
superstitious  quality,  compelling  reverence  where 
utmost  caution  should  be  used,  and  making 
strength  of  feeling  its  guide  and  sanction  as  well. 

Roger  was  holding  forth  in  his  usual  energetic 


ROGER  HUNT.  73 

fashion  on  some  passage  in  the  Symposium,  at  one 
of  these  weekly  gatherings,  with  an  earnestness 
that  offended  some  of  his  listeners  and  amused 
others,  and  grew  more  dogmatic  as  he  proceeded, 
when  he  caught  Eleanor's  eyes  fastened  on  him, 
wistful,  admiring,  sympathetic.  Piqued  by  the 
opposition  he  had  met  in  other  quarters,  the  look 
at  once  warmed  his  heart  and  fired  his  imagina- 
tion. Before  this  he  had  taken  but  passing  notice 
of  the  new  member,  but  after  the  formal  exercises 
of  the  evening  were  over  he  drew  near  and  en- 
tered into  conversation  with  her.  The  first  words 
exchanged  between  them  help  to  explain  what  fol- 
lowed. 

"You did  not  disagree  with  me? "  he  said,  fixing 
her  with  that  large,  direct  gaze,  that  always  held 
her  like  a  magnet. 

"I?  Oh,  I  am  too  ignorant.  I  know  almost 
nothing  of  the  subject,"  she  replied,  flushing. 

"Still,   you  did  not  disagree  with  me?" 

"No,  I  did  not  disagree,"  she  replied  after  a 
slight  pause,  with  lowered  eyes. 

"Then  I  don't  care  whether  the  others  agreed  or 
not." 

She  threw  a  startled  glance  at  him,  and  drew  a 
little  away  from  him. 

"Does  my  plain  speaking  offend  you?  If  it 
does  I  will  go  away.  I  came  over  here  to  talk 
with  you,  because  something  told  me  you  were  dif- 
ferent from  the  rest;  you  would  understand"  — 

"  A.re  you  trying  to  convert    Miss    Thaxter  to 


74  ROGER  HUNT. 

your  dangerous  theories?"  Mrs.  Somers  asked,  in 
a  lively  tone,  stopping  near  them  a  moment  on  her 
way  across  the  room. 

"Miss  Thaxter  needs  no  conversion,"  was  the 
prompt  reply,  and  again  they  exchanged  a  deep 
look,  which  Eleanor  could  not  long  sustain.  Mrs. 
Somers  passed  on.  The  company  began  to  break 
up,  and  Roger,  ascertaining  that  his  companion 
was  without  an  escort,  accompanied  her  home. 

How  the  acquaintance  progressed  after  that,  no 
one  knew.  To  the  two  most  concerned  it  seemed 
at  once  to  have  reached  the  height  of  a  blissful,  if 
unconfessed,  understanding.  It  was  of  a  kind 
whose  outward  signs  of  growth  are  of  little  conse- 
quence. Sharp  as  Roger  Hunt's  experience  had 
been,  it  had  profited  him  little  in  some  things.  He 
could  no  more  think  temperately  about  his  feeling 
for  a  woman,  hold  it  at  arm's  length,  while  he 
seriously  examined  and  judged  it,  than  he  could 
refrain  from  lifting  a  cup  of  cold  water  to  his  lips 
when  thirsty.  And  he  was  always  thirsty.  His 
acquaintance  with  Eleanor  was  not  a  week  old  be- 
fore he  had  pronounced  her,  in  his  heart,  the  one 
woman  Nature  meant  for  his  own ;  while  she,  after 
a  few  ineffectual  struggles,  yielded  herself  wholly 
to  the  thought  of  him.  The  absent  conventionality 
of  their  intercourse  was  to  him  the  sign  of  its  truth 
and  honesty.  The  suddenness  of  this  new  feeling 
that  had  taken  possession  of  them  both,  was,  he 
argued  to  Eleanor,  proof  of  its  miraculous  quality, 
its  heaven-sent  nature  and  mission.  He  panegy- 


ROGER  HUNT.  75 

rized  it  in  all  the  exalted  terms  he  could  command, 
while  she  listened,  borne  on  the  current  of  his  swift, 
impassioned  discourse,  as  on  a  resistless  river.  It 
could  be  no  accident,  he  told  her,  that  had  thus 
brought  them  together.  The  stars  in  their  courses 
were  not  more  true  to  their  appointed  destiny  than 
he  and  she  in  yielding  unreservedly  to  this  new 
power  that  had  seized  them  so  mysteriously.  To 
question  or  resist  it  was  to  violate  the  holiest  in- 
junction of  nature.  Thus,  curiously  enough,  with 
a  phraseology  borrowed  from  religion,  though  him- 
self a  believer  in  none  of  its  forms,  he  compelled 
her  to  listen  to  him.  Never  was  an  erring  cause 
defended  injoftier  discourse,  clothed  with  purer 
sentiment,  or  upheld  by  graver  argument  than  that 
of  this  strangely  united  pair. 

To  the  majority  of  his  acquaintance  Roger  Hunt 
was  a  cold  and  passionless  man,  and  their  surprise 
at  this  last  action  of  his  was  therefore  the  greater. 
They  did  not  reflect  that  a  course  like  his  may  be 
inspired  less  by  rebellious  blood  than  an  arrogant 
will. 

Like  most  unpopular  men,  Roger  repaid  society 
in  its  own  coin,  holding  its  average  judgments  and 
standards  in  open  scorn.  His  was  a  s6litary  na- 
ture, capable  of  living  quite  alone  if  need  be,  yet 
sufficiently  human  to  attach  itself  hungrily  to  an- 
other, whose  sympathy  and  answering  regard  he 
was  sure  of.  His  acquaintance  with  Eleanor  was 
no  sooner  begun  than  he  began  to  show  a  depend- 
ence on  her  in  a  hundred  little  ways,  —  ways  which 


76  EOGEH  HUNT. 

at  once  thrill  and  uplift  a  woman's  heart,  proud  in 
the  knowledge  of  her  power  to  serve  the  man  she 
loves.  This  knowledge  in  a  nature  like  hers  could 
but  become  the  basis  of  an  appeal  in  her  own  mind 
for  her  lover's  rightful  claim  on  her.  His  love 
was  the  dearest  possession  life  had  ever  bestowed. 
She  was  living  in  a  new  world.  Gratitude  began 
to  bear  down  the  scales.  It  could  not  be  wrong, 
she  reasoned,  to  strive  to  be  all  she  could  to  one 
who  was  everything  to  her,  whom  fate  had  so  un- 
kindly treated,  whom  she  coidd  help  as  no  one  else 
could. 

Their  voyage  at  an  end,  completely  separated  at 
last  from  all  the  scenes  and  associations  of  the  past, 
alone  together  in  a  foreign  clime,  living  a  life  of 
constant  dear  dependence  on  each  other,  Eleanor 
realized  in  some  measure  her  dream  of  happiness. 
For  a  time  they  lived,  the  world  forgetting,  and  by 
the  world  forgot.  Eleanor's  very  ignorance  and 
inexperience  stood  her  in  good  stead  here ;  making 
her  dependence  on  Roger  more  apparent  to  both 
every  day,  the  source  of  even  more  grateful  happi- 
ness to  her  than  to  him,  while  the  strange  sights 
and  events  incident  to  constant  travel  contributed 
to  throw  a  romantic  illusion  over  everything. 
From  time  to  time  there  were  moments  of  startled 
recollection  and  half -wakened  memory,  such  as  we 
note  in  sleep,  when  the  knowledge  that  we  are 
dreaming  pierces  through  the  dream  itself,  delaying 
or  abruptly  destroying  its  sweet  delusions.  It  was 
indeed  a  dreamlike  existence  she  led  in  these  days, 


EOGER  HUNT.  77 

the  more  easily  proved  such  that  she  prayed  con- 
tinually never  to  waken. 

Roger  seemed  thoroughly  happy,  and  this  fact 
did  much  to  stay  and  comfort  Eleanor.  His  had 
been  the  greater  sacrifice,  she  argued ;  if  they  had 
done  wrong,  the  consequences,  so  far  as  others  were 
concerned,  were  far  more  serious  on  his  side  than 
on  hers ;  yet  Roger  was  content,  and  therein  lay  all 
needed  proof  that  no  wrong  had  been  done.  He 
spoke  freely  and  carelessly  of  the  past,  like  one 
who  had  nothing  to  conceal,  while  she  longed  to 
forget  everything  but  the  passing  moment.  Had 
Roger  suspected  this  state  of  mind  in  her,  he  would 
have  taken  more  pains  to  spare  her  feelings  on 
some  points;  as  it  was,  he  often  hurt  and  weak- 
ened her  in  ways  he  knew  nothing  of.  Yet  since 
his  thoughtlessness  generally  took  the  form  of  some 
new  belief  in  her,  or  claim  upon  her  love  for 
himself,  it  never  aroused  any  sense  of  injury  in 
her. 

For  example,  a  more  sensitive  lover,  one,  that  is, 
more  sensitive  in  her  behalf,  would  have  thought 
twice  before  letting  her  see  the  letter  from  Mrs. 
Somers ;  but  Roger  thought  only  of  the  surprise  it 
would  be  to  her  and  the  diversion  it  might  afford 
them  both.  Eleanor  had  been  a  secret  and  rather 
passionate  admirer  of  Mrs.  Somers,  having  that 
feeling  towards  her  which  a  woman  of  shy,  but  as- 
piring nature  often  has  for  another  more  resolute 
and  self-sustained.  If  she  had  had  some  of  Mrs. 
Somers 's  self-reliance  and  courage,  she  had  often 


78  ROGER  HUNT. 

told  herself,  her  life  would  not  have  been  so  sorry  a 
failure.  That  was  before  she  knew  Roger.  When 
she  mentioned  some  such  feeling  to  him,  he  had 
both  chidden  and  encouraged  it. 

"Mrs.  Somers  is  a  talented  woman,"  he  said. 
"A  man  could  hardly  help  admiring  her,  and  feel- 
ing a  certain  degree  of  companionship  with  her,  but 
he  could  not  love  her.  Such  women  neither  know 
how  to  love  nor  how  to  inspire  love.  A  woman's 
greatest  gift,"  he  went  on,  looking  at  Eleanor  affec- 
tionately, "is  appreciation.  Look  through  history 
and  show  me  the  man  who  ever  did  anything  great 
and  fine  in  the  world,  and  I  will  show  you  some 
loving  woman  by  his  side,  who  believed  in  him 
when  the  world  did  not,  who  lived  only  for  him. 
Can  you  fancy  such  a  woman  in  Kitty  Somers? 
She  thinks  too  much  of  herself." 

In  a  way,  Eleanor  felt  there  might  be  truth  in 
this,  still  some  of  the  old  admiration  remained.  It 
touched  her  deeply  to  know  that  this  woman  she 
had  thought  so  much  of,  and  made  a  kind  of  pic- 
ture of  in  imagination,  had  been  kindly  disposed 
towards  her,  had  thought  so  well  of  her,  indeed, 
that  she  wished  to  make  her  a  sharer  in  her  own 
pursuits,  had  stood  ready  to  treat  her  as  a  friend 
and  an  equal  at  the  very  moment  when —  She 
could  not  think  of  it. 

"Why  did  you  show  me  the  letter?  "  she  asked. 
She  spoke  with  an  energy  quite  new  to  her.  Tears 
were  in  her  eyes,  her  voice  choked.  Roger  looked 
at  her  in  perplexed  surprise. 


ROGER  HUNT.  79 

"I  thought  it  would  amuse  you,"  he  said. 

"It  does  not  amuse  me  to  know  that  people  de- 
spise me,"  she  said  with  a  little  resentment. 

"Does  the  letter  say  that?  I  thought  it  said 
something  quite  opposite." 

"She  despises  me  now,  of  course." 

"If  she  does,  it  is  a  proof  of  her  ignorance  and 
prejudice.  So  why  should  you  care?" 

"I  do  care." 

"I  am  sorry."  He  seemed  hurt,  and  she  drew 
nearer  to  him  with  a  look  of  contrition. 

"Forgive  me,  dear,  but  it  —  it  is  so  different 
with  a  woman.  And  she  was  your  friend.  You 
liked  her,  I  know.  You  used  to  like  to  talk  to  her. 
You  valued  her  good  opinion.  I  have  heard  you 
say  so  many  times." 

He  was  silent,  partly  because  he  was  still  a  little 
displeased  with  this  power  of  the  past  to  rise  like  a 
disturbing  ghost  between  them,  partly  because  his 
own  thoughts  were  busy  with  the  days  that  were 
gone. 

"Will  she  despise  us?"  she  urged,  looking  at 
him  anxiously. 

"No;  Kitty  Somers  is  a  sensible  woman." 

"Do  you  mean  she  will  approve  of  what  we  have 
done?"  eagerly. 

"I  did  not  say  that;  probably  she  will  deem  it 
her  duty  to  try  to  think  as  others  do." 

By  "others"  Roger  meant  her  husband,  whose 
letter  he  Jiad  received  some  time  before.  Its  polite 
but  rather  curt  tone  rankled  in  him  still.  He  had 


80  EOGER  HUNT. 

had  a  foolish  hope  that  Kitty  Soniers  would  write 
to  him,  if  only  to  reproach  and  repudiate  him ;  but 
in  this  he  had  been  disappointed.  Everything  was 
over  with  this  pair  of  friends,  he  felt,  and  with 
more  regret  than  he  admitted  any  other  result  of 
his  action,  but  he  felt  prepared  to  support  the  loss. 

They  remained  abroad  nearly  three  years,  fol- 
lowing the  usual  round  of  the  tourists,  but  making 
long  stops  at  points  of  principal  interest,  forming 
almost  no  acquaintances  and  living  by  themselves. 
The  first  few  months  were  given  up  solely  to  sight- 
seeing, and  that  absorbed  attention  to  each  other 
which  in  an  honester  kind  of  union  is  called  the 
honeymoon.  Then  Roger  began  to  long  to  get 
back  to  his  literary  work.  Setting  up  a  study 
wherever  they  happened  to  be,  he  spent  his  morn- 
ings in  writing,  meaning  to  finish  a  work  begun 
before  he  left  home,  a  brief  monograph  on  some 
art  topic,  and  offer  it  to  an  English  publisher. 
Eleanor  missed  him,  but  rejoiced  in  a  change  which 
placed  their  lives  on  a  more  natural  footing.  She, 
too,  began  to  study,  working  at  the  languages,  and 
following  a  course  of  reading  Roger  had  marked 
out  for  her  on  medieval  history.  He  rallied  her 
on  these  self-imposed  tasks,  declaring  she  was  get- 
ting as  learned  as  Vittoria  Colonna. 

Eleanor  was  indeed  doing  her  best  to  saturate 
herself  with  the  spirit  of  a  foreign  age  and  clime. 
A  careful  observer  would  have  noticed  a  fitfulness 
in  these  attempts  at  mental  occupation,  and  the 
look  of  painful  self -absorption  that  rested  on  her 


ROGER  HUNT.  81 

face  from  time  to  time.  Roger  Hunt  was  not  a 
careful  observer,  even  of  the  woman  he  loved, 
whose  changing  moods  he  soon  began  to  notice, 
but  only  in  relation  to  himself.  Eleanor  continued 
to  meet  him  with  a  smile,  and  the  old  love-light 
in  her  eyes,  which,  for  him,  hid  any  deeper  expres- 
sion of  suffering  or  doubt.  At  times,  though,  the 
strained  spirit  gave  way  and  he  was  made  witness 
to  some  strange  outburst  of  pent-up  feeling  by 
which  he  discovered,  by  degrees,  the  mixed  and 
struggling  nature  with  which  he  had  to  deal. 

Man-like,  Roger  Hunt  had  done  the  thing  he 
wished  and  was  careless  of  what  followed.  He  had 
burned  his  ships.  Regret  that  could  neither  cor- 
rect nor  undo  anything  involved  a  waste  of  time 
and  emotion,  and  he  did  not  wish  to  undo  anything. 

Eleanor,  too,  had  burned  her  ships,  but  only  to 
sit  disconsolately  in  the  ashes  of  the  ruin  she  had 
wrought.  There  were  times  when  she  seemed  as 
helplessly  bound  to  this  single  deed  as  a  felon  to 
his  chain  and  ball,  when  the  feeling  of  bondage  was 
so  strong  that  the  effort  to  repress  it  was  madden- 
ing, and  she  could  have  shrieked  aloud.  Afraid  to 
think  any  longer,  she  would  throw  herself  fever- 
ishly into  some  new  task  or  occupation,  copying 
Roger's  manuscripts,  and  entering  eagerly  into  all 
his  plans ;  stifling  conscience  with  the  remembrance 
of  the  irregular  careers  of  most  men  of  genius 
Roger  was  so  fond  of  referring  to,  and  supporting 
herself  with  the  thought  that  what  Leonora  was 
to  Tasso  and  Du  Deffand  to  Hume,  she  was  to  the 


82  EOGEB   HUNT. 

as  yet  unrecognized  man  of  genius  by  her  side.  A 
certain  kind  of  inspiration,  not  unlike  moral  en- 
thusiasm, would  sometimes  spring  from  thoughts 
like  these,  and  for  days  she  would  seem  to  walk  on 
air,  to  be  living  what  Roger  called  the  life  of  the 
spirit.  Then  would  follow  the  inevitable  reaction, 
a  recurring  period  of  doubt  and  remorse.  Thus 
two  years  passed  and  found  them  at  the  beginning 
of  the  third  winter  in  Naples,  where  they  had  been 
since  October. 

Here  they  lived  quietly  in  apartments  in  one  of 
the  dingy  but  spacious  structures  belonging  to  a 
decayed  nobility,  and  presided  over  by  a  Scotch 
landlady,  whose  British  antecedents  forbid  the  use 
of  any  foreign  nomenclature  in  her  description. 
Roger  kept  up  his  usual  habit  of  morning  study. 
He  had  finished  his  book  and  realized  his  dream  of 
an  English  publisher.  It  had  brought  him  no 
money,  but  had  won  him  some  favorable  recogni- 
tion among  scholars  in  his  line  of  work;  this,  he 
told  Eleanor,  proudly,  was  all  he  wanted.  Both 
rested  content  in  the  thought  that  if  the  book  had 
been  of  a  poorer  quality  it  would  probably  have 
been  more  successful.  The  stay  in  Naples  was  pro- 
longed through  Roger's  interest  in  some  Pompeiian 
excavations  that  were  going  on,  his  present  studies 
lying  in  that  direction. 

One  afternoon  they  paid  a  visit  to  a  bric-a-brac 
shop  on  the  Strada  San  Lucia  to  examine  again 
some  vases  of  curious  workmanship  which  had  at- 
tracted Roger's  attention.  Eleanor,  who  had  but 


ROGER  HUNT.  83 

a  vicarious  interest  in  matters  of  this  kind,  wan- 
dered aimlessly  about  the  crowded  little  room,  com- 
ing at  length  on  a  portfolio  of  old  engravings. 
Their  artistic  merit  was  not  much,  as  even  a  tyro 
like  herself  could  see,  but  the  subjects  interested 
her ;  there  was  one  illustrating  a  passage  in  Dante 
she  did  not  understand,  but  which  attracted  her 
more  than  the  others.  Her  unsystematic  habits 
of  study  had  left  her  strangely  ignorant  on  some 
points,  and  she  put  it  to  one  side  to  consult  Roger 
about  it  when  he  should  be  at  liberty.  He  and  the 
shopkeeper  were  engaged  in  a  discourse  of  a  char- 
acter at  once  learned  and  bargaining.  When  it 
was  broken  off,  to  the  latter 's  disappointment, 
without  a  purchase,  Roger  came  over  to  Eleanor's 
side.  She  at  once  asked  him  to  explain  the  pic- 
ture. It  represented  two  floating  figures,  clasped 
in  each  other's  arms,  a  strange  expression  of  ex- 
alted joy  and  despair  on  their  faces,  the  wrhole 
scene  shrouded  in  a  dim  and  murky  atmosphere. 
Roger  recognized  it  at  once,  and  frowned  slightly. 
Briefly,  and  with  attempted  carelessness,  he 
sketched  the  story  of  Francesca  da  Rimini. 

Eleanor  then  vaguely  recalled  the  legend,  bend- 
ing her  eyes  with  new  and  painful  interest  on  the 
faded  print. 

"They  were  lovers?  "  she  said  in  a  low  tone. 

"Yes.  Shall  we  go  now?  "  He  had  no  objec- 
tions to  discussing  the  subject  in  all  its  bearings 
so  far  as  he  himself  was  concerned,  but  he  dreaded 
its  effect  on  her. 


84  ROGER  HUNT. 

"  Like  Lancelot  and  Guinevere?"  she  whispered 
again. 

"Like  all  the  noblest  loves  of  all  the  ages,"  was 
the  quick  reply;  "like  that  of  Gemma  Donati's 
husband  for  his  wonderful  Beatrice,  for  that  mat- 
ter," shrugging  his  shoulders.  "Dante  need  not 
be  so  hard  on  the  rest." 

"Was  he  hard  on  them?  "  lifting  her  face  anx- 
iously to  his.  "Did  you  say  this  was  in  the  In- 
ferno? Then  they  are  being  punished.  How  does 
he  punish  them?  " 

Roger,  who  had  given  a  scant  account  of  the  story 
before,  now  gave  her  the  poet's  interpretation. 

"  '  Blown  about  by  furious  winds ! '  '  she  re- 
peated wonderingly.  "  'Doomed  never  to  sepa- 
rate! '  What  a  strange  punishment!  " 

"No  punishment  at  all,"  laughed  Roger.  "Sour 
old  Dante  defeats  himself  there.  They  are  to- 
gether, and  forever,"  letting  his  voice  fall.  "What 
do  they  care  for  anything  else?  What  are  the  ter- 
rors of  hell  to  them?  They  carry  heaven  in  their 
hearts."  He  seized  the  hand  hanging  at  her  side 
and  pressed  it  warmly. 

She  looked  at  him,  and  tried  to  smile,  but  her 
eyes  were  full  of  vague,  troubled  appeal. 

"It 's  all  the  world  for  love,  and  the  world  well 
lost,"  he  added  pressing  her  hand  again.  "Love 
is  enough,  is  it  not?  I  am  sure  those  two  thought 
so." 

"Yes,  yes,  of  course,"  she  murmured,  pressing 
closer  to  him  as  if  for  support. 


ROGER  HUNT.  85 

"Now  let  us  leave  this  musty  old  shop,"  he  said, 
tossing  the  print  aside.  "It  is  time  for  our  sunset 
sail."  She  followed  him  reluctantly,  looking  back 
at  the  picture.  She  wanted  to  take  it  with  her, 
but  dreaded  to  speak  her  wish  to  him. 

They  spent  the  next  hour  on  the  water.  A 
blaze  of  gold  and  crimson  light  covered  the  bay, 
and  made  the  surrounding  heights  look  like  the 
jeweled  setting  to  a  priceless  gem,  imparting  to  the 
entire  scene  an  effect  as  illusive  as  it  was  beautiful. 
Eleanor  sat  in  the  stern  of  the  boat,  watching  the 
skies  and  Roger's  skillful  handling  of  the  ropes. 
How  ready  and  accomplished  he  was  about  every- 
thing, she  reflected,  and  what  a  helpless  creature 
she  was,  beside  him !  He  had  taught  her  how  to 
steer,  but  she  did  it  awkwardly,  so  that  generally 
he  preferred  to  handle  both  rudder  and  sails ;  an 
arrangement  that  pleased  her  quite  as  well,  for  she 
liked  to  lie  back  on  the  cushions,  dreamily  noting 
all  that  was  going  on  about  them,  and  feeling  her- 
self wholly  in  her  lover's  hands. 

The  next  morning  she  paid  an  early  visit,  alone, 
to  the  little  shop,  and  purchased  the  print.  Taking 
it  home  with  her,  she  found  a  copy  of  Dante  and 
shut  herself  in  her  room.  Before  long  she  had 
mastered  both  poet's  and  artist's  meaning,  and  sat 
lost  in  troubled  thought.  So  absorbed  was  she 
that  she  did_  not  hear  Roger  enter  the  room.  He 
drew  near  and  placed  a  hand  on  her  shoulder. 
She  started  and  colored  deeply  when  she  saw  him, 
rising  from  her  chair. 


86  ROGEE  HUNT. 

He  looked  displeased  when  he  saw  the  print 
again. 

"What  did  you  buy  that  thing  for?  "  he  asked 
rather  sharply. 

"It  —  it  interested  me,"  she  replied,  falter- 
ingly .  "  And  I  thought  it  might  be  a  help  when  I 
came  to  read  Dante." 

"It 's  a  poor  print,"  turning  the  talk  to  an  un- 
important phase  of  the  subject.  "Did  that  knav- 
ish shopkeeper  tell  you  it  was  a  proof?" 

"Oh,  no,  no.     I  only  paid  two  florins  for  it." 

"Humph!  I  don't  understand  why  you  want 
to  spend  your  time  poring  over  such  a  dismal  sub- 
ject. You  had  better  let  Dante  alone;  Petrarch 
and  Boccaccio  will  help  you  much  better.  Dante's 
theory  of  punishment  is  perfectly  fantastic  from 
beginning  to  end.  •  The  poem  is  as  useless  reading 
as  the  Arabian  Nights,  and  not  half  as  entertain- 
ing." 

"Don't  you  consider  Dante  a  great  poet,  then?  " 
she  asked  in  surprise. 

"I  suppose  you  can  call  him  great,"  in  a  grudg- 
ing tone ;  "  but  he  belongs  as  exclusively  to  his  own 
age  as  the  monks  that  burned  Savonarola.  He  '11 
do  you  no  good.  You  're  morbid  enough  already." 

"Am  I  morbid?  "  a  sensitive  flush  rising  to  her 
face. 

"You  are  the  sweetest  woman  in. the  world," 
clasping  her  in  his  arms  and  kissing  her.  In  his 
heart  he  was  ready  to  add  that  she  needed  looking 
after  like  a  child,  but  with  a  feeling  of  tender  ex- 


ROGER  HUNT.  87 

cuse,  for  he  was  still  at  that  stage  when  the  protec- 
tion of  her  weakness  was  a  dear  task.  Like  most 
resolute  natures,  however,  he  disliked  irresolution 
in  others.  Not  even  the  knowledge  of  his  own 
strength,  and  that  chivalric  compassion  her  weak- 
ness aroused,  could  prevent  him  from  growing 
weary  at  times  of  moods  he  could  neither  caress 
nor  reason  away.  He  took  the  print  from  her 
and  locked  it  in  a  drawer,  retaining  the  key,  while 
she  looked  on  with  a  shamefaced  smile.  He  then 
tried  to  gain  possession  of  the  book,  but  here  she 
resisted  him. 

"I  promise  it  shall  not  hurt  me,"  she  said;  then, 
ashamed  of  this  excess  of  feeling,  "You  say  it  does 
not  teach  the  truth,  yet  you  are  afraid  of  its  effect 
on  me.  You  must  think  me  very  weak-minded." 

"Well,  yes,  sometimes." 

"Why  do  you  call  his  theory  of  punishment 
'fantastic  '  ?  It  seems  to  me  the  symbolism  he  em- 
ploys is  very  real,  the  leaden  hoods  for  the  hypo- 
crites, and  the  river  of  blood  for  the  violent." 

"It 's  the  most  childish  literalism !  "  he  exclaimed 
impatiently.  "That  notion  of  arbitrary  punish- 
ment was  exploded  long  ago." 

"But  the  punishment  that  is  the  natural  conse- 
quence of  sin?"  she  suggested. 

"  Sin !  My  dear  Eleanor,  you  talk  like  the  elder 
of  a  Presbyterian  meeting-house." 

"I  don't  mean  sin  in  the  theological  sense,  but 
surely  we  must  all  admit  there  is  a  great  deal  of 
evil  in  the  world." 


88  ROGER  HUNT. 

"There  is  a  great  deal  of  ignorance." 

"Moral  ignorance,  you  mean?" 

"That  is  only  another  sign  of  intellectual  defi- 
ciency." 

"Well,"  after  meditating  on  this  a  moment,  "it 
makes  no  difference.  If  evil  comes  only  from  ig- 
norance, it  is  all  the  more  pitiful.  It  should  teach 
us  greater  charity."  She  did  not  ask  herself 
whether  it  had  in  his  case. 

"You  won't  find  much  charity  in  Dante,"  he 
said. 

"No,  he  is  terrible,"  with  a  shudder.  "He  is 
merciless,  yet  he  is  so  true ;  I  mean  in  some  ways. 
He  shows  how  a  wrong  action  always  stays  by  you. 
You  can  never  get  rid  of  it !  " 

"Why  should  you  want  to?  "  Roger  asked  calmly. 
"The  healthy  mind  accepts  its  mistakes  along  with 
the  rest  of  experience.  Remorse  is  often  the  most 
useless  thing  in  the  world,  and  only  another  form 
of  self-indulgence." 

"Surely  we  should  admit  our  mistakes?" 

"  We  may  admit  them,  but  need  not  torture  our- 
selves with  red-hot  irons  over  them.  One  mistake 
is  in  essence  much  like  another.  If  I  had  not  made 
a  misstep  in  my  mountain  climbing  last  summer,  I 
should  not  have  been  laid  up  a  fortnight  with  a 
sprained  ankle.  But  there  was  no  moral  guilt  in 
the  affair." 

"It  was  dark,  and  you  could  not  see,"  she  said, 
excusingly. 

"In   other  words,   I   was   ignorant.     It  would 


EOGER  HUNT.  89 

have  taken  your  saintly  Beatrice  a  long  time  to 
reach  so  rational  a  conclusion." 

"Don't  you  like  Beatrice,  either?"  in  fresh  sur- 
prise. 

"How  can  I  like  a  woman  who  has  no  blood  in 
her  veins!  who  is  made  up  of  pious  self-compla- 
cency capped  with  an  aureole !  Heaven  defend  me 
from  superior  creatures  like  that !  " 

"If  it 's  the  superiority  you  object  to,"  she  said 
with  a  faint  smile,  "you  certainly  have  reason  to 
be  satisfied  now.  It  was  not  the  woman  Dante 
loved,  but  the  redeemed  spirit." 

"Perhaps  so;  I  don't  know  much  about  spirits, 
'  redeemed '  or  otherwise.  I  am  content  to  love 
the  woman,"  with  a  look  warm  but  reproachful. 

"Yes,  dear,  I  know.  You  are  only  too  good  to 
me,  always.  But  a  woman  should  stand  for  the 
highest  and  the  best  to  the  man  who  loves  her. 
That  is  what  Beatrice  was  to  Dante.  And  —  and 
it  kills  me,"  her  voice  breaking,  "to  think  I  have 
not  been  that  —  that  it  was  I  who  helped  you  to  do 
wrong,  that "  —  She  was  past  speaking  now,  even 
had  he  not  quickly  checked  her. 

"Not  a  word  more  of  that,  "he  said,  and  with  an 
effort  she  controlled  herself. 

'"You  help  me  to  do  wrong!"  he  repeated. 
"  There  was  no  wrong  about  it !  It  was  you  who 
made  it  possible  for  me  to  live !  " 

"Oh,  is  it  true,  dear?  That  is  what  I  want  to 
believe !  There  is  nothing  in  the  world  I  want  to 
believe  so  much  as  that ! 


90  ROGER  HUNT. 

"  '  Want  to  believe  ! '  What  a  singular  expres- 
sion! Why  will  you  give  way  to  these  childish 
fancies,  Eleanor?  Do  you  love  me?"  raising  his 
head  proudly. 

"Do  I  love  you?" 

"Then  I  don't  understand  this  talk  about  be- 
lieving and  wanting  to  believe.  Love  makes  its 
own  beliefs,  as  it  does  its  own  laws.  When  it  can 
no  longer  do  this,  it  has  ceased  to  be  love." 

This  was  the  point  which  their  discussions  always 
reached,  beyond  which  Eleanor  dared  not  press  her 
thoughts,  where  to  question  was  to  differ.  She 
could  only  stammer  some  words  of  lame  excuse, 
admitting  her  weakness  and  promising  amendment. 

"If  you  love  me,  you  should  trust  me,"  Roger 
continued,  in  reply  to  some  new  protestation  from 
her. 

"So  I  do,"  reproachfully.  "Who  else  is  there 
for  me  to  trust?  I  have  no  one  in  the  wide  world 
but  you." 

He  took  her  in  his  arms.  "Yet  you  have  mo- 
ments of  being  sorry  you  have  me.  Your  courage 
fails  you,  and  you  repent "  — 

"I  repent  of  nothing,"  she  said  hurriedly. 

"How  do  you  suppose  a  man  feels  when  he  asks 
a  woman  to  do  what  you  have  done,  and  discovers 
that  instead  of  making  her  happiness  he  has  killed 
it?" 

"You  have  not  killed  my  happiness!  I  never 
dreamed  of  the  possibility  of  happiness  until  1  saw 
you.  I  am  the  most  ungrateful  woman  in  the 


ROGER  HUNT.  91 

world.  Do  forgive  me,"  and  she  pressed  nearer  to 
him. 

"It  is  only  because  I  get  so  tired,"  she  said, 
with  a  sigh,  after  she  had  grown  quieter  and  the 
kiss  of  peace  had  been  exchanged.  "I  can't  think 
things  out." 

"  Stop  trying.  You  torture  yourself  worse  than 
any  anchorite  of  the  Middle  Ages,  and  about  prob- 
lems that  are  as  useless."  He  smiled  as  he  spoke, 
relieving  the  words  of  their  harshness. 

"I  promise,  I  promise.  Here,  take  the  book 
and  put  it  away,"  picking  up  the  volume  from  the 
table  and  thrusting  it  on  him.  "I  never  want  to 
see  it  again.  After  this  I  will  think  only  of  you, 
and  how  to  make  you  happy."  He  looked  pleased 
at  this,  and  kissed  her  again. 

"If  you  wish  me  to  be  happy,  you  have  only  to 
be  so  yourself."  The  condition  sounded  very  sim- 
ple. 

"Now,  bathe  your  eyes  and  come  down  to  lunch. 
Flora  McDonald,"  Roger's  pet  name  for  their 
Scotch  landlady,  "has  concocted  a  new  dish  for  us, 
a  villainous  mess  of  greens,  which  must  have  ex- 
hausted their  evil  intent  in  their  looks,  so  I  think 
we  can  eat  them  with  impunity.  This  afternoon 
we  will  go  and  take  a  look  at  old  San  Martino." 


VII. 

ON  their  way  to  the  old  monastery,  which  is 
now  owned  by  the  government  and  put  to  secular 
uses  as  a  museum,  Roger  and  Eleanor  passed 
through  the  great  market  square,  the  Piazza  del 
Marcato,  which,  as  it  happened  to  be  market-day, 
presented  a  lively  scene,  one  the  passing  tourist  is 
glad  to  catch  sight  of.  The  square  was  lined  with 
gayly  adorned  booths;  the  lemonade  merchant's 
stall,  garlanded  with  yellow  fruit,  standing  next  to 
the  inevitable  macaroni  stand,  with  strings  of  dry- 
ing paste  that  looked  at  a  distance  like  dirty  col- 
ored yarn.  Groups  of  half -naked  lazzaroni  lay  in 
sunny  spots,  stretching  out  dirty  hands  for  alms, 
for  this  was  before  their  banishment  to  the  region 
of  the  Malo  Grande  on  the  coast,  though  still  at 
that  point  in  their  career  which  Dumas  describes 
as  one  of  decadence,  marked  by  the  obligation  to 
wear  a  single  garment. 

The  scene  was  a  familiar  one,  and  they  would 
gladly  have  avoided  it  had  they  remembered  the 
day,  though  once  within  it  they  found  much  to  in- 
terest and  amuse  them.  Passing  by  one  of  the 
fountains  which  decorate  the  open  space,  the  Fon- 
tana  di  Masaniello,  Roger  repeated  the  story  told 
in  the  guide-books  of  young  Tommaso  of  AmaLfi, 


ROGER  HUNT.  93 

dating  from  the  middle  of  the  seventeenth  century, 
who,  in  rage  over  the  fine  of  one  hundred  ducats 
imposed  against  his  wife  for  smuggling  a  small 
package  of  flour  into  the  city  during  one  of  the 
numerous  sieges  of  war,  roused  his  oppressed  coun- 
trymen to  revolt ;  the  uprising,  after  a  brief  period 
of  success,  ending  in  the  young  leader's  death. 
The  legend  was  of  the  kind  that  always  aroused  the 
narrator's  entllusiasm.  Soon  after  they  paused  to 
watch  a  young  girl  dancing  the  tarentella.  She 
had  all  the  traditional  beauty  of  her  race,  dusky 
skin,  through  which  the  red  blood  glowed,  dark, 
melting  eyes  and  supple  limbs.  Eleanor  looked 
on  with  a  sense  of  discomfort,  hut  Roger  was  a 
true  cosmopolite,  and  watched  the  dancer's  agile 
and  sinuous  motions  with  delight.  Catching  sight 
of  him,  she  flung  out  her  limbs  in  a  few  wild  con- 
tortions as  a  finale,  and  eagerly  pushing  her  way 
through  the  crowd,  dropped  on  one  knee  at  his 
feet,  extending  her  tambourine  for  the  perform- 
ance's payment,  an  expression  of  cunning  greed 
sharpening  the  face  that  had  looked  so  joyous  and 
innocent  before.  Roger  was  displeased,  the  illu- 
sion was  destroyed.  He  dropped  a  coin  into  the 
tambourine  and  drew  Eleanor  away. 

"These  Neapolitans  are  the  most  avaricious 
people  under  the  sun;  they  do  everything  for 
money,  nowadays." 

They  passed  out  of  the  square  through  a  small 
gate  near  the  church  of  San  Eligio,  commemora- 
ting the  patron  saint  of  the  workers  in  metals. 


94  ROGER  HUNT. 

"I  didn't  know  they  ever  canonized  any  one 
except  for  some  religious  deed,"  said  Eleanor. 

"Sometimes  they  make  a  slip  in  another  direc- 
tion. The  church's  progress,  such  as  she  has  at- 
tained, is  marked  by  her  mistakes." 

The  little  gate  was  surmounted  with  two  heads, 
recording  the  judgment  of  Isabella  of  Aragon, 
back  in  the  early  part  of  the  sixteenth  century, 
against  a  dissolute  member  of  the  Caraccioli  fam- 
ily, compelling  him  to  marry  the  girl  he  had  ruined, 
and  then  beheading  him  in  his  bride's  presence;  a 
verdict  Roger  warmly  commended,  discussing  the 
subject  with  the  same  impersonal  interest  he  would 
the  dome  of  St.  Jeter's. 

They  were  obliged  to  pass  through  one  of  the 
poorer  back  streets  to  reach  the  point  from  which 
they  wished  to  ascend  to  the  upper  part  of  the  city. 
The  pavement  swarmed  with  children,  who  looked 
up  at  the  passers-by  with  cherubic  faces  and  Ra- 
phael's heavenly  eyes.  In  the  door-ways  sat  the 
mothers,  engaged  in  some  household  task  and  gos- 
siping with  each  other. 

"How  beautiful  these  Italian  children  are!  "  said 
Eleanor.  "Yet  how  quickly  they  change,  and 
grow  coarse  and  common,  especially  the  girls." 

"That  is  because  they  have  no  minds,"  Roger 
replied. 

"Yes,  it  must  be  so."  She  had  never  thought 
of  it  before,  but  the  answer  pleased  her  beyond  its 
literal  meaning.  Most  men,  she  reflected,  do  not 
care  whether  a  woman  has  a  mind  or  not,  but  it 


ROGER  HUNT.  95 

was  not  so  with  Roger;  this  was  to  her  another 
sign  of  that  goodness  she  wanted  most  of  all  to 
believe  in,  that  ideality  of  purpose  which,  in  spite 
of  appearances,  she  knew  ruled  all  his  actions. 

They  were  near  the  end  of  the  close,  ill-smeliing 
street,  when  they  saw  a  large,  swarthy- skinned 
woman  sitting  in  front  of  one  of  the  houses,  mend- 
ing a  fishing-net,  a  group  of  children  playing  at 
her  feet. 

"Here  is  Donna  Maria,"  said  Roger,  in  a  low 
tone,  half  amused,  half  vexed.  "Now  for  some 
theatricals." 

At  the  same  moment  the  woman  looked  up  and 
recognized  them,  springing  to  her  feet  and  coming 
to  meet  them,  calling  the  children  in  delighted 
tones.  She  greeted  thenf  with  the  national  effu- 
sion, and  continued  to  pour  a  stream  of  voluble  talk 
on  them,  her  large  figure,  with  the  children  cling- 
ing to  her  skirts,  quite  blocking  their  progress. 
In  a  few  minutes  Roger  was  in  possession  of  the 
entire  family  history  since  their  last  meeting,  in- 
terlarded with  repeated  fervent  thanks  for  some 
past  benefit,  and  ending  in  a  shower  of  blessings 
for  himself  and  the  sweet  lady. 

Roger's  relation  to  Donna  Maria  was  one  that 
did  him  credit.  Soon  after  their  arrival  in  Naples 
he  had  started  on  a  foot  excursion  to  San  Martino 
alone,  passing  through  this  same  street.  Drawing 
near  Donna  Maria's  house,  he  heard  the  sound  of 
violent  blows  within,  and  a  child's  piercing  shrieks. 
Without  thought  of  consequences  he  rushed  inside, 


96  ROGER  HUNT. 

and  saw  a  sickening  sight,  which  at  the  same  time 
made  his  blood  boil.  A  big  brute  of  a  man  was 
beating  a  child  of  about  four  years  with  a  large 
stick,  while  the  latter  lay  writhing  and  screaming 
on  the  floor.  In  a  corner,  huddled  together,  their 
faces  blanched  with  fear,  and  guarded  by  a  young 
girl  of  sixteen,  stood  the  other  children  of  the 
household,  crying  and  covering  their  eyes  from 
the  scene.  Near  the  infuriated  man  stood  his  wife, 
imploring  and  berating  him  in  turn,  careless  of 
the  bloody  cuts  she  had  herself  received  on  neck 
and  face.  In  physical  stature  Roger  looked  like  a 
boy  beside  this  giant,  whose  face  was  swelled  and 
purple  with  rage,  and  whose  brawny  arm  was 
raised  for  another  blow.  He  sprang  forward  and 
wrested  the  stick  from  the  man's  hands,  and  with 
it  pointed  the  master  of  the  house  to  his  own  door. 
With  blazing  eyes  and  fixed  countenance,  he  looked 
the  impersonation  of  a  strength  dependent  on  no 
material  aid,  as  fearless  as  it  was  just.  The  man 
swore  a  little  and  threatened,  but  Roger's  look 
cowed  him,  and  he  slowly  shuffled  outside;  while 
the  mother  hastily  gathered  the  crying  child  in  her 
arms.  From  her  Roger  learned  the  history  of  'the 
affair,  no  unusual  tale,  so  far  as  the  incidents  al- 
ready revealed,  in  the  lives  of  poverty  and  brutal- 
ity abounding  in  this  quarter ;  but  containing  one 
more  shameful  feature  still,  which  Roger  learned 
of  by  degrees. 

Lisa,   the    oldest   daughter,    sixteen   only,    but 
woman  grown  in  this  clime,  was  betrothed  to  one 


ROGER  HUNT.  97 

Antonio,  a  young  boatman  on  the  bay  below.  All 
was  going  well,  when  a  young  English  traveler,  old 
in  the  practice  of  the  criminal  passions  that  ruled 
him,  let  a  pair  of  wanton  eyes  fall  on  the  girl  as 
she  stood  in  the  market  square;  waylaying  her 
shortly  after,  he  made  an  insulting  proposal  to  her. 
Frightened  and  indignant,  she  sought  her  parents' 
protection,  but  into  her  father's  face  as  he  listened, 
crept  an  evil  look.  He  boldly  sought  out  the  Eng- 
lish visitor,  and  came  to  terms  with  him.  It  was 
the  revolt  caused  by  the  news  of  this  bargain,  made 
known  to  mother  and  daughter,  their  tears,  en- 
treaties, and  threats  of  exposure,  which  led  to  the 
scene  Roger  had  disturbed. 

His  rage  was  now  at  white  heat,  and  he  took  the 
case  into  his  own  hands.  He  took  Lisa  home  with 
him,  and  placed  her  in  Eleanor's  care.  Then  he 
sought  out  the  young  Englishman.  St.  Michael, 
armed  with  invincible  power,  did  not  more  swiftly 
descend  upon  the  dragon  than  Roger  swooped 
down  on  his  unsuspecting  victim.  Judge,  witness, 
and  advocate,  in  one,  he  stood  before  him  with 
blazing  eyes  and  lashing  tongue;  and  as  he  had 
ordered  Donna  Maria's  husband  from  his  own 
house,  so  he  ordered  the  young  reprobate  to  leave 
Naples  within  twelve  hours. 

The  righteousness  of  his  cause  was  proved  by  the 
prompt  obedience  he  received  in  both  cases.  Not 
content  with  this,  Roger  sought  out  the  town  au- 
thorities, and  even  consulted  with  the  American 
consul,  for  it  was  necessary  to  spend  his  newly 


98  ROGER   HUNT. 

gathered  energies  in  some  direction.  The  consul 
talked  pacifically  of  climatic  influences  in  the  for- 
mation of  national  types,  and  invited  Roger  to  din- 
ner. The  girl  Lisa  stayed  with  her  new  protectors 
until  her  marriage,  which  was  soon  after  arranged. 
About  the  same  time  her  father  was  impressed  into 
the  king's  service,  and  Roger  became,  in  a  sense, 
the  family  guardian. 

Donna  Maria  wept  copiously  at  parting  with  her 
lord,  and  tried  to  persuade  Roger  to  procure  his 
release,  but  he  told  her  she  was  well  rid  of  him, 
and  that  he  deserved  to  be  shot  in  his  first  battle. 
She  detained  him  now  to  tell  the  last  news  of  him, 
praising  and  complaining  of  him  in  a  breath.  The 
children  hung  about,  raising  seraphic  eyes  to 
Eleanor  and  shyly  stretching  out  their  little  hands 
to  touch  her  dress.  Breaking  away  at  last,  they 
pursued  their  journey.  Eleanor  had  not  felt  so 
happy  in  a  long  time,  as  in  this  renewed  testimony 
of  Roger's  courage  and  generosity.  Her  face 
glowed  with  grateful  light,  and  she  hung  fondly  on 
his  arm. 

"  That  woman  will  never  forget  you.  She  grows 
more  grateful  every  day,  I  think." 

"Consul  Foster  would  tell  you  it  was  only  the 
climate,"  Roger  laughed  in  reply,  "and  I  begin 
to  think  myself,  that  the  Donna's  gratitude  is  of 
the  kind  some  one  has  described  as  'a  lively  sense 
of  benefits  to  come. '  She  keeps  begging  me  to  get 
her  husband  home." 

"Do  you  suppose  she  loves  him  still?"  Eleanor 
asked. 


ROGER  HUNT.  99 

"Oh,  these  people  love  as  they  eat;  like  the  ani- 
mals they  are." 

"Yes.  She  seems  to  have  no  conception  of  the 
outrage  he  meant  to  practice  on  his  daughter." 

"No,  you  couldn't  expect  that." 

"What  was  it  she  said  of  Lisa?"  Eleanor's 
Italian  was  not  as  good  as  Roger's. 

"She  and  Antonio  have  gone  to  work  on  a 
vineyard  near  Sorrento.  Perhaps  Antonio  thinks 
life  on  the  water  too  uncertain  for  a  married  man. 
They  are  expecting  a  boy,  and  wishing  they  knew 
how  to  Italianize  the  name  of  Hunt."  An  in- 
scrutable expression  swept  over  Eleanor's  face,  and 
she  made  no  reply.  She  was  tired,  and  when  they 
reached  the  place  where  they  were  to  begin  the 
ascent,  Roger  called  one  of  the  boys  who  stood 
waiting  with  a  donkey,  and  placed  her  on  it.  He 
himself  was  a  famous  walker  and  tramped  on  by 
her  side. 

They  did  not  go  inside  the  monastery,  but  were 
content  to-day  to  admire  its  noble  proportions  from 
a  distance,  seating  themselves  on  the  greensward 
to  rest.  Roger  stretched  himself  at  full  length, 
drew  his  hat  over  his  eyes  to  shield  them  from  the 
descending  sun,  and  fell  asleep.  Eleanor  sat  be- 
side him,  looking  out  over  the  crowded  roofs  of  the 
town  to  the  blue  distances  of  the  bay  beyond. 
Vesuvius 's  pillar  of  smoke  rose  slowly  on  their  left. 
As  she  sat  there,  unobserved,  the  bright  look  her 
face  had  worn  when  they  left  Donna  Maria  slowly 
faded,  and  the  old  expression  of  care  returned. 


100  .  ROGER  HUNT. 

It  seems  a  wretched  fatality  that  natures  most 
prone  to  suffering  should  be  continually  finding 
new  cause  for  it;  yet  science  could  explain  this,  as 
she  does  the  readiness  of  water  to  run  down  hill, 
on  the  principle  of  least  resistance.  Eleanor's 
powers  of  resistance  had  never  been  great,  and 
lately  threatened  to  desert  her  entirely.  Before 
her  discovery  of  the  picture,  her  doubts  had  been 
of  a  remote  intangible  order,  depressing  the  heart, 
but  taking  no  definite  shape  in  thought;  now  they 
began  to  present  themselves  in  concrete  questions 
she  could  neither  answer  nor  set  aside.  Worse 
than  this,  it  was  not  her  own  weak,  untaught  power 
of  reasoning  that  had  failed  her,  alone,  but  Ro- 
ger's too  began  to  appear  inconclusive  on  some 
points.  Eleanor  was  in  that  pitiable  state  which 
hero- worshipers  must  all  reach  sooner  or  later. 
She  had  chosen  a  judgment  as  mortal  as  her  own 
for  her  final  court  of  appeal,  pinned  her  faith  to 
one  as  human  as  herself.  No  lover  however  gen- 
erous and  tender,  no  friend  however  wise  and 
strong,  can  bear  the  test  it  was  Eleanor's  necessity 
to  impose  on  Roger.  Had  their  relation  been  of 
a  more  natural  order,  the  need  to  believe  him  per- 
fect would  not  have  been  so  great. 

As  her  thoughts  went  back  to  the  banished  pic- 
ture and  the  story  of  the  doomed  lovers,  she  said 
to  herself  that  Roger  was  wrong.  It  would  be  a 
punishment  to  be  bound  to  each  other  like  that, 
never  to  loosen  those  clinging  arms,  supporting 
each  other  in  a  mad  whirl  of  passionate  impulse 


ROGER  HUNT.  101 

and  desire,  to  read  in  love's  glance  no  innocent  joy 
or  safety,  only  the  shame  of  its  own  misdoing. 

Eleanor  had  been  taught  by  Roger  to  glorify 
feeling,  to  exalt  it  above  every  other  motive  of 
conduct;  but  here  in  a  half  dozen  lines  an  old 
dead  poet  had  shown  her  how  the  right  to  feel  may 
be  as  dishonestly  indulged  as  the  right  to  eat  and 
drink,  how  feeling  has  as  much  power  to  enslave 
and  degrade  as  to  purify  and  liberate.  Roger 
talked  of  the  sweets  of  liberty  with  an  eloquent 
tongue,  but  Dante  showed  how  there  is  a  liberty 
that  leads  to  moral  bondage  worse  than  death. 

From  loving  each  other  in  that  wild  sweet  way, 
it  was  easy  to  see  how  this  helpless  pair  might 
come  to  hate  and  spurn  each  other,  or  at  least  loathe 
the  love  that  can  only  weaken  and  destroy,  long 
for  hate's  reviving  power.  Yet  their  dark  deed 
binds  them  together,  and  forever.  That  is  what 
Dante  meant,  said  Eleanor  to  herself.  "Eter- 
nity "  is  the  dread  word  written  on  every  page  of 
the  Inferno.  That  was  what  she  meant  when  she 
said  to  Roger  that  he  showed  how  a  bad  action  al- 
ways stays  by  you.  Obedience  is  the  first  great 
law  of  the  universe.  Obedience  to  what?  Eleanor 
did  not  know  ;  but  she  was  beginning  to  know 
the  loss  and  desolation  disobedience  brings.  She 
sat  in  darkness,  though  the  landscape  was  bathed 
in  golden  sunlight.  The  day  was  warm,  but  she 
shivered.  A  numb  despair  crept  over  her  ;  yet 
she  remained  intensely  quiet.  A  passer-by  would 
only  have  seen  a  woman  sitting  on  the  ground,  her 


102  ROGER  HUNT. 

hands  clasped  over  one  knee;  wondering  a  little, 
perhaps,  at  the  intent,  strained  look  in  the  eyes 
fixed  on  the  distant  horizon.  By  her  side  Roger 
slept  quietly. 


vni. 

WE  are  creatures  of  moods,  the  most  self -con- 
sistent of  us.  Our  mental  maladies,  like  our  phy- 
sical, have  their  seasons  of  ebb  and  flow,  their  fluc- 
tuations, periods  of  climax,  and  slow  return  to 
more  normal  conditions.  The  spirit,  as  well  as  the 
body,  can  bear  only  its  degree  of  suffering,  then 
it  breaks ;  or,  more  often,  reaction  takes  place,  and 
it  bounds  back,  through  some  impulsive  energy  of 
its  own,  into  the  realm  of  hope  and  happy  activity 
again. 

Even  as  she  sat  there  on  the  wooded  slope  over- 
looking Italy's  fairest  landscape,  lost  in  despairing 
thoughts,  Eleanor  felt  something  within  give  way, 
as  if  a  strained  nerve  had  snapped,  only  the  sensa- 
tion that  followed  was  one  of  strange,  merciful  re- 
lief. Pain  was  glutted  and  had  released  his  hold. 
Remorse  was  weary  and  ceased  to  importune  her. 

Physically  she  herself  was  more  weary  than  be- 
fore, and  wakened  Roger  to  tell  him  so  and  ask 
him  to  take  her  home;  but  the  sudden  cessation 
of  pain  within  seemed  like  a  new  and  positive 
strength  gained,  and  she  felt  almost  light-hearted 
again.  She  talked  in  a  cheerful  strain  to  Roger 
as  he  led  her  down  the  path,  though  she  leaned 
heavily  on  his  arm. 


104  ROGER  HUNT. 

Once  more,  warned  by  this  experience,  she  threw 
herself  into  the  tasks  that  would  keep  her  near  him. 
She  strove  heroically  to  banish  all  intruding  mem- 
ories, to  throttle  certain  thoughts  and  fancies  at 
their  birth,  to  think  of  nothing  but  the  present 
hour.  Roger  had  told  her  that  to  make  him  happy 
she  had  only  to  be  happy  herself.  The  condition 
was  one  a  loving  woman  ought  to  be  able  easily  to 
satisfy,  she  told  herself.  Roger,  she  knew,  thought 
so.  She  was  beginning  to  be  a  little  afraid  of 
Roger,  for  as  she  studied  him  she  saw  how,  not  his 
happiness  alone,  but  his  love  was  dependent  on  the 
condition  named.  She  saw  how  these  variable 
moods  of  hers  wearied  him ;  and  as  her  power  to 
suffer  grew,  she  felt  her  hold  on  him  loosen. 

Roger  Hunt  had  suffered  some  deep  disappoint- 
ments in  the  personal  relations  of  life,  which,  aside 
from  the  question  of  his  own  accountability,  had 
left  a  permanent  impress  on  his  character,  impart- 
ing a  distrust  of  his  kind  that  even  Eleanor  must 
to  a  degree  suffer  from.  He  bore  these  disappoint- 
ments with  melancholy  pride.  If  Eleanor,  he 
reasoned,  should  fail  him,  prove  unequal  to  the 
thing  she  had  undertakn,  to  his  high  demand  of 
her,  as  he  phrased  it,  show  herself  a  creature  of 
small  womanish  fears  like  the  rest  of  her  sex,  it 
would  not  be  strange,  perhaps;  he  would  try 
not  to  blame  her;  but  he  declined  in  advance  to 
hold  himself  responsible  for  the  consequences. 
Thoughts  like  these  she  was  beginning  to  read,  in 
things  of  small  but  significant  import;  his  own 


ROGER  HUNT.  105 

changeable  manner,  with  a  tendency  to  irritability, 
mysterious  words  dropped  now  and  then,  long 
periods  of  silence,  the  waning  freshness  and  spon- 
taneity of  the  entire  relation  between  them. 

They  had  reached  that  period  which  married 
people,  secure  in  the  naturalness  of  the  tie  that 
unites  them,  dare  call  by  its  right  name,  the  "set- 
tling-down" period;  but  which,  in  a  connection  of 
this  kind,  is  full  of  danger.  With  shame,  that 
reached  at  times  moral  abasement,  and  with  quick- 
ened fears  on  all  sides,  Eleanor  began  to  recognize 
how  frail  was  the  bond  between  Roger  and  herself. 
She  was  not  afraid  of  any  open  act  of  injustice,  but 
every  day  showed  her  more  clearly  how  this  stolen 
Eden  of  theirs  must  be  guarded  at  every  point. 
They  had  purchased  their  coveted  liberty,  but  at 
the  cost  of  every  moment's  natural  ease  and  secu- 
rity. They  talked  of  living  the  true  life,  guided 
only  by  their  own  sense  of  right,  scorning  lower 
and  more  commonplace  standards,  but  the  event 
was  proving  that  their  life  was  no  simpler  and  truer 
than  those  they  looked  down  on  among  people  who 
obeyed  the  laws  and  lived  as  their  neighbors  did. 
Appearances  must  be  kept  up  here  as  elsewhere. 
Eleanor  was  given  to  understand  she  must  be 
happy. 

The  winter  months  passed,  and  they  lived  on, 
quietly  still,  but  not  so  entirely  by  themselves  as 
before,  Roger  having  made  a  few  acquaintances 
among  scholars,  native  and  foreign,  engaged  in 
lines  of  work  similar  to  his  own,  and  suffering  him- 


106  ROGER  HUNT. 

self  to  be  introduced  to  a  small  circle  of  literary 
and  artistic  people  presided  over  by  Lady  Mandel, 
a  resident  English  woman  of  middle  age,  intellec- 
tual tastes,  and  checkered  history. 

Roger's  willingness  to  avail  himself  of  social 
privileges  of  this  sort  was  one  of  the  most  marked 
signs  of  change  in  him,  of  lessening  dependence 
on  her,  which  Eleanor  observed  with  apprehen- 
sion, but  with  a  degree  of  relief  also.  Once  or 
twice  she  had  accompanied  him  to  Lady  Mandel's 
fortnightly  reunions,  but  the  effort  to  enter  into 
occasions  of  this  kind  was  most  difficult.  Her 
nature  was  very  shy,  under  the  kindest  circum- 
stances, and  here,  where  she  felt  herself  so  falsely 
placed,  her  embarrassment  increased,  and  reached 
the  point  of  dullness.  Added  to  this  was  the  dis- 
pleasure she  could  not  but  feel  in  the  free  speech 
and  manner  of  her  cigarette-loving  hostess,  nearly 
all  of  whose  guests  were  men,  and  a  hurt,  puzzled 
surprise  that  Roger  should  care  to  be  one  of  them. 

Strangers  were  always  coming  and  going  at 
Lady  Mandel's,  where  generous  hospitality  reigned, 
and  one  was  always  certain  to  meet  some  people  of 
"more  or  less  importance  in  their  day,"  as  well 
as  curious  visitors  and  idle  hangers-on.  On  the 
evening  of  Eleanor's  last  attendance,  at  a  rather 
late  hour,  the  little  circle  was  pleasantly  agitated 
by  the  entrance  of  a  young  American  pair,  just 
arrived  in  Naples,  and  making  the  regulation  tour 
of  the  peninsula.  Eleanor  recognized  them  at  once, 
with  quickened  pulse  and  a  strong  wish  to  escape ; 


ROGER  HUNT.  107 

their  steamer  acquaintances,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Frank 
Devine  of  Denver.  Roger,  absorbed  in  an  erudite 
discussion  with  a  German  professor  on  the  nature 
of  Tyrian  purple,  did  not  notice  them  until  he  heard 
his  name  spoken  in  accents  of  pleased  surprise  by 
the  lady.  She  greeted  him  in  the  demonstrative 
fashion  of  her  age  and  country,  exclaiming  anew 
her  surprise,  asking  innumerable  questions,  and 
congratulating  herself  on  her  good  fortune;  for 
now  Professor  Hunt  would  tell  them  all  about 
Naples,  what  to  see  and  how  to  set  about  it.  They 
could  only  stay  three  days !  The  speaker  used  the 
title  instinctively,  and  let  the  one  with  whom  she 
favored  it  see  that  she  regarded  him  as  a  most  for- 
tunate find.  *  Eleanor  could  see  that  Roger,  too, 
was  pleased.  He  professed  himself  happy  to  be 
Mrs.  Devine 's  e'scort  wherever  she  liked. 

"And  you  are  going  to  'do'  Naples  in  three 
days?"  he  said,  with  a  teasing  smile. 

"That  is  all  we  can  spare.  Isn't  it  enough?" 
she  asked  anxiously;  then,  pouting  a  little  at  his 
look  of  amusement,  "I  don't  see  how  we  can  give 
Naples  more  than  three  days,  when  we  only  gave 
Florence  a  week." 

"No,  of  course  not,"  said  Roger,  sympatheti- 
cally. "You  mustn't  upset  the  ethics  of  the  trav- 
eling public  like  that.  The  author  of  Murray 
would  have  to  rewrite  his  guide-book." 

"Now  you  are  making  fun  of  me;"  but  he  as- 
sured her  he  regarded  her  coming  as  a  great  boon. 
There  were  many  points  in  Naples  he  had  not  yet 


108  ROGER  HUNT. 

visited  himself.  He  made  an  engagement  to  ac- 
company her  to  Virgil's  tomb,  and  the  grotto  of 
Posilippo.  Then  there  was  the  drive  to  St.  Elmo, 
the  Pompeiian  collection  in  the  Museo  Borbonica, 
sail  across  the  bay  to  Capri,  etc.,  etc.  There  was 
a  little  ironic  laughter  in  Roger's  eyes  as  he  enu- 
merated these  well-known  points,  which  the  con- 
ventional tourist  never  misses.  Mr.  Devine  was 
presumably  included  in  these  engagements,  though 
he  neither  spoke  nor  was  spoken  to.  Roger  ended 
by  telling  her  that  she  must  not  ask  him  to  take 
her  to  the  cave  of  the  Cumaean  sibyl. 

"Why  not?"  she  asked. 

"No  man  has  ventured  to  accompany  a  woman 
there  since  ^Eneas  met  his  fate." 

She  laughed  at  this,  but  feebly,  not  in  the  least 
understanding  him,  then  frankly  admitted  her  ig- 
norance, and  asked  him  to  explain.  He  told  her 
the  legend  of  the  sibyl  who  practiced  her  wily  arts 
on  the  hero,  leading  him  to  his  untimely  end,  and 
sacrificing  him  to  the  infernal  gods.  She  laughed 
again ,  under  standingly . 

"But  you  do  not  believe  in  the  gods,"  she  said. 

"How  do  you  know  that?"  he  asked,  raising  his 
eyebrows. 

"Oh,  I  remember  some  of  our  talks  on  the 
steamer." 

Here  she  turned  and  included  Eleanor  in  her 
glance.  "Professor  Hunt  fairly  overwhelmed  me 
with  his  knowledge,  on  all  manner  of  subjects. 
He  made  me  quite  afraid  of  him." 


ROGER  HUNT.  109 

"You  do  not  appear  so  now,"  said  Roger.  "I 
suspect  I  have  some  reason  to  be  afraid  of  you." 

"  You  have,  indeed ;  has  n't  he,  Frank  ?  "  turning 
to  her  husband,  who  still  stood  in  an  attitude  of 
patient  attendance  at  her  side.  "Poor  Mr.  De- 
vine  ! "  she  added  to  Roger  in  pretended  aside. 
"He  is  tired  to  death  of  traveling.  He  came  after 
me  last  spring,  and  we  've  been  going  about  ever 
since.  He  hates  Europe,  and  I  know  never  means 
to  let  me  come  over  again.  That  is  the  reason  I 
must  improve  my  time  now." 

Her  husband  made  no  response  to  this,  looking 
stolidly  before  him.  Roger  cast  a  careless  glance 
at  him,  then  brought  his  eyes  back  to  the  one  ad- 
dressing him.  Eleanor  felt  sorry  for  the  young 
man,  and  making  an  effort,  addressed  a  few  words 
to  him ;  but  conversation  proved  difficult,  and  soon 
the  two  were  again  listening  to  the  lively  dialogue 
of  their  more  brilliant  mates.  Eleanor  overheard 
Roger  making  an  engagement  to  meet  Mrs.  De- 
vine  and  her  husband  at  the  chapel  of  San  Gen- 
naro.  He  ended  with  an  invitation  to  them  to  re- 
turn home  with  him  for  dinner,  glancing  casually 
but  meaningly  at  Eleanor.  Mrs.  Devine  was  pro- 
fuse in  her  thanks,  but  looked  to  Eleanor  to  con- 
firm this  invitation.  The  latter  flushed  and  hesi- 
tated, then  stammeringly  said  that  she  should  be 
very  happy.  Her  embarrassment  was  too  manifest 
not  to  be  noticed,  and  was  punished  with  a  cold 
response  from  the  younger  woman,  whose  manner 
had  a  touch  of  additional  brightness  and  warmth 


110  ROGER  HUNT. 

when  she  turned  again  towards  Roger.  She  re- 
peated that  she  wanted  to  see  everything,  and  feli- 
citated herself  anew  on  the  valuable  assistance  she 
was  to  receive  from  him,  again  addressing  him  as 
"Professor." 

Roger  felt  he  had  borne  this  pleasant  infliction 
long  enough. 

"I  am  not  a  professor,"  he  corrected  her. 

"You  are  not?"  with  flattering  surprise.  "But 
I  am  sure  you  ought  to  be." 

"Thank  you.  I  might  consent  to  receive  the 
title  at  your  hands."  Eleanor  looked  at  him  in 
some  surprise.  She  had  not  seen  him  in  such  good 
spirits  for  a  long  time.  Mrs.  Devine  laughed  and 
said  she  would  wait  until  he  had  proved  how  much 
he  knew  about  Naples.  "I  supposed  every  one 
here  was  professor,"  she  said,  glancing  about  her. 
"Tell  me,"  she  added,  moving  a  step  nearer  to 
Roger,  and  speaking  in  a  lowered  tone,  "did  we 
do  right  to  come  here  ?  I  heard  about  Lady  Man- 
del  in  Vienna.  My  music-teacher  gave  me  a  let- 
ter, but  Mr.  Devine  doesn't  like  him,  and  didn't 
want  to  bring  me.  He  will  feel  differently  about 
it  now,  though,  since  we  have  found  you  here." 

Even  Roger  was  not  proof  against  a  fleeting  em- 
barrassment here.  He  smiled  queerly  and  glanced 
at  Eleanor.  She  had  overheard,  and  a  vivid  flush 
dyed  her  face.  Mr.  Devine  had  moved  a  little  to 
one  side,  relieving  himself  from  a  conversation  in 
which  he  could  find  no  share,  by  pretending  to  ex- 
amine some  engravings  on  a  small  table  near  by. 


EOGEE  HUNT.  Ill 

"Don't  ask  me,"  Roger  replied,  recovering  him- 
self. "I  know  nothing  about  any  of  your  conven- 
tionalities, and  care  less." 

"You  literary  people  are  so  independent,"  the 
lady  sighed. 

Eleanor  could  bear  the  situation  no  longer  and 
rose  nervously  to  her  feet,  stepping  forward  and 
asking  Roger,  rather  abruptly,  to  take  her  home. 
He  looked  surprised  and  a  little  displeased,  but 
consented.  She  turned  to  Mrs.  Devine  with  a 
few  words  of  apology,  but  the  latter  was  still  a 
little  hurt  and  distrustful,  and  took  leave  of  her 
coldly. 

"So  la  belle  Americaine  is  a  friend  of  yours?" 
Roger's  hostess  said  to  him,  as  they  stood  together 
a  moment,  while  Eleanor  was  putting  on  her  wrap. 
"How  do  you  manage  to  grow  so  many  handsome 
girls  over  there?  " 

"Is  she  handsome?"  he  asked,  in  some  distaste. 
"I  had  not  noticed." 

" You  had  not  noticed !  Humph!  Then  if  you 
have  no  eye  for  a  pretty  woman  when  you  see  her, 
it 's  to  be  hoped  you  have  none,  either,  for  an  ugly 
one.  Some  of  us  can  get  a  little  comfort  out  of 
that." 

Roger  made  no  reply,  not  telling  her  whether 
this  reasoning  applied  or  not.  He  found  Lady 
Mandel  undeniably  coarse  and  offensive  at  times. 

"Your  compatriot  is  not  only  beautiful  but  tal- 
ented. Herr  Rosenthal  writes  me  she  might  make 
her  mark  as  a  pianiste  if  she  chose,  but,"  shrug- 


112  ROGER  HUNT. 

ging  her  shoulders,  "what  can  you  expect?  She 
has  a  husband,  and  he  is  rich.  It  is  money  spoils 
all  of  you  Americans.  You  are  worshipers  of  the 
Golden  Calf,  — not  you,  perhaps,"  she  added,  with 
a  contemplative  gaze.  "You  are  a  dreamer.  You 
live  in  the  clouds." 

"  The  clouds  are  of  a  rather  earthly  manufacture, 
just  now,"  he  replied  glancing  through  the  smoke- 
filled  rooms. 

"They  will  do  you  no  harm  if  they  are,"  she  re- 
torted. "You  are  the  first  man  I  ever  knew,  of 
brains,  I  mean,  who  objected  to  tobacco  smoke." 

"Thank  you;  the  cause  progresses  slowly,  I  ad- 
mit." 

"And  as  for  a  lady's  smoking,"  waving  her 
piece  of  cigarette,  nearly  extinguished,  "I  suppose 
such  a  conception  never  entered  your  mind  until 
you  came  here." 

He  felt  like  asking  her  what  reason  there  was  to 
suppose  it  entered  his  mind  then,  but  forbore,  and, 
seeing  Eleanor  waiting,  bade  her  good  evening. 

When  they  reached  home  he  was  about  to  leave 
her  for  an  hour's  reading  in  his  study,  when  she 
detained  him. 

"Roger,  I  want  to  speak  with  you  a  moment." 

He  had  taken  a  lamp  in  his  hand,  and  stood 
holding  it,  with  his  face  partly  turned  towards  her, 
waiting. 

"Roger,"  speaking  with  difficulty,  "that  lady 
—  Mrs.  Devine  —  must  not  come  here.  We  must 
not  let  her." 


EOGER  HUNT.  113 

"  Indeed !     Why  ?  "  he  asked  coldly. 

"It  would  make  her  husband  very  angry;  he 
would  have  a  right  to  be  angry." 

"What  do  I  care  for  her  husband?" 

"She  woidd  be  angry,  too.  She  would  never 
forgive  us.  We  must  not  take  advantage  of  any 
one,  Roger.  It  would  not  be  right." 

"You  and  I  have  different  notions  of  right, 
sometimes." 

"  Roger,  I  beg  you  to  grant  my  wish.  Do  not 
compel  me  to  receive  her.  You  know  she  would 
not  come  —  if  she  knew.  No  woman  would"  — 
Her  voice  broke. 

"If  she  knew  what?"  he  demanded.  "If  you 
think  there  is  anything  in  my  past  life  I  am 
ashamed  of  "  — 

"It  is  not  that.  But,"  rising  and  going  towards 
him  and  laying  a  hand  on  his  arm,  "we  must  not 
do  any  one  a  wrong,  even  though  we  feel  it  to  be  a 
fancied  wrong  only.  I  never  knew  you  to  want  to 
deceive  any  one,  Roger." 

The  last  words  had  their  effect,  but  he  would  not 
admit  it  to  her.  For  a  moment  he  stood  with  his 
eyes  bent  frowningly  on  the  floor,  then  turned 
abruptly  and  left  her,  without  a  word.  She  heard 
him  close  the  study  door,  and  went  wearily  to  her 
room,  too  much  oppressed  with  weightier  matters 
to  feel  hurt  at  his  manner,  and  relieved  to  be  by 
herself. 

The  next  day  Roger  kept  his  appointment,  but 
took  his  new  friends  to  a  popular  cafe  to  dine, 


114  ROGER  HUNT. 

excusing  the  non-fulfillment  of  the  first  arrange- 
ment on  the  convenient  pretext  of  Eleanor's  poor 
health.  Mrs.  Devine  received  his  apologies  with 
apparent  good  nature,  but  the  acquaintance  had 
received  a  perceptible  check,  and  the  next  time 
they  met  her  manner  was  more  formal,  arousing 
a  little  resentment  on  Roger's  side,  who  was  glad 
when  the  travelers  had  finished  Naples  and  gone 
on  their  way.  He  continued,  however,  to  cherish 
a  slight  grudge  against  Eleanor.  He  could  not 
persuade  her  to  accompany  him  again  to  Lady 
Mandel's. 

"What  is  it  you  are  afraid  of?"  he  asked  her 
once,  while  arguing  the  case  with  her. 

"I  did  not  say  I  was  afraid.  But  I  can't  go, 
Roger;  I  can't  meet  those  peeople.  Don't  ask  me, 
dear.  Don't  think  I  don't  want  you  to  go;  I  am 
so  glad  you  can  have  a  little  society.  But  I  —  I 
don't  need  it.  I  have  you,"  smiling  bravely  up  at 
him,  through  unshed  tears. 

"You  forget  that  I  have  to  answer  all  sorts  of 
questions  about  you." 

"Questions?"  she  repeated  in  some  alarm. 
"Do  you  mean  that  people  are  talking  about  us, 
that  they  suspect "  —  She  could  not  go  on,  and 
turned  a  little  away  from  him. 

"Suspects!  Who  cares  what  anybody  suspects? 
My  dear  Eleanor,  can't  you  put  a  little  more 
breadth  into  some  of  your  ideas?  We  are  not  liv- 
ing in  a  New  England  village,  nor  expected  to 
carry  a  copy  of  the  decalogue  into  a  social  draw- 


ROGER  HUNT.  115 

ing-room.  For  that  matter,  there  are  reasons  why 
Lady  Man  del  need  not  be  very  scrupulous  in  such 
matters.  There  are  some  not  very  nice  stories 
afloat  about  her." 

He  had  overreached  himself  here.  Quickly  the 
retort  rose  to  her  lips:  "Is  that  the  reason  you 
think  her  a  fit  companion  for  me?"  but  she  sup- 
pressed it.  She  remained  gently  obstinate  to  all 
his  arguments  and  entreaties,  however,  and  he 
soon  formed  the  habit  of  going  without  her.  She 
was  glad  to  have  him  go,  though  often  lonely  in 
his  absence.  She  had  all  a  loving  wife's  power  of 
self-abnegation,  and  though  she  had  once  been  first 
in  all  his  thoughts,  submitted  now  to  be  made 
second  in  many  ways.  She  had  learned  that  no 
two  people,  however  dear,  are  wholly  sufficient  to 
each  other's  needs;  that  the  hunger  for  human 
companionship  is  manifold,  and  must  feed  on  many 
lesser  loves  as  well  as  on  one  that  is  supreme. 
There  were  times  when  to  feel  herself  restored  to 
simple  natural  relations  with  the  world,  she  could 
have  foregone  the  most  rapturous  bliss  she  had  ever 
tasted  in  this  unhallowed  relation.  She  was  like 
one  who  has  fed  on  sweets,  until  the  palate  longs 
for  a  taste  of  homelier  fare,  which  it  cannot  gratify 
because  the  chance  of  its  honest  earning  is  lost. 

Eleanor  was  feeling,  with  relief,  that  the  ques- 
tion of  her  social  duties  was  settled,  when  Roger 
came  home  one  day  and  told  her,  with  a  pleased 
look,  he  had  met  an  old  friend,  one  of  his  former 
townsmen,  Henry  Hamilton.  Eleanor  tried  to 
place  the  name,  but  could  not. 


116  ROGER  HUNT. 

"  Don't  you  remember  Hamilton,  that  little  shy 
man  we  used  to  meet  at  Mrs.  Somers's?" 

Yes,  she  remembered  now,  but  indistinctly  still. 

"He  was  immensely  glad  to  see  me.  He  always 
liked  me.  There  's  a  lot  of  sense  and  good  feeling 
in  the  little  fellow.  Usually  it 's  a  bore  running 
across  old  acquaintances  in  that  way,  but  I  declare, 
I  believe  I  was  rather  glad  to  see  Hamilton." 

Eleanor  listened  with  a  sympathetic  face. 

"Is  he  married?"  she  asked  after  a  while,  an 
inevitable  question  with  her,  sooner  or  later. 

"He  's  married,  with  a  vengeance." 

"Was  Mrs.  Hamilton  a  member  of  the  Plato 
class?" 

"She!  She  would  as  soon  join  a  burlesque 
opera  troupe.  A  most  unbearable  woman!  " 

"Is  she  with  her  husband?"  Eleanor  asked, 
gathering  some  other  meaning  in  his  words  than 
lay  on  the  surface. 

"Of  course.  You  don't  suppose  she  'd  let  him 
come  to  Europe  without  her.  She  gave  me  the  cut 
direct."  He  tried  to  speak  with  airy  indifference. 

"Didn't  she  speak  to  you?  "  Eleanor  asked  in  a 
concerned  tone. 

"What  do  I  care  if  she  didn't?  Such  a  woman 
makes  virtue  detestable.  She  hasn't  an  idea  that 
is  n't  a  prejudice,  nor  a  conviction  that  is  n't  founded 
on  some  kind  of  antipathy!  I  pity  Hamilton  from 
the  bottom  of  my  heart." 

"I  am  afraid  she  thinks  there  is  reason  for  some 
prejudice  in  this  case." 


ROGER  HUNT.  117 

"She  may  think  what  she  pleases."  Eleanor 
knew  he  was  as  indifferent  as  he  seemed.  She 
looked  at  him  wonderingly,  envying,  as  she  had 
many  times  before,  that  strength  of  purpose,  that 
having  once  asserted  itself,  can  stand  upright, 
without  one  backward  look.  To  his  dying  day 
Roger  would  feel  about  this  act  of  theirs  as  he  did 
the  hour  it  was  resolved  on. 

"I  suppose  most  of  our  acquaintances  would 
have  behaved  as  she  did,"  she  said  thoughtfully. 

"Very  likely." 

"Mr.  Hamilton  did  not?" 

"No  !  He  is  a  gentleman.  He  is  not  one  of 
the  self-appointed  guardians  of  the  universe,  like 
his  wife ;  he  knows  how  to  keep  his  opinions  until 
they  're  asked  for.  That 's  all  I  ask  of  any  man. 
I  invited  him  to  dine  with  us  to-morrow." 

"Roger!" 

"Well?" 

"Without  his  wife?" 

"You  don't  suppose  I  asked  him  with  his  wife?" 

"I  —  I  can't  receive  him,  Roger." 

"May  I  ask  why?  "  in  the  voice  and  manner  she 
had  learned  to  dread. 

"I  can't  act  as  hostess  to  your  gentlemen 
friends." 

"This  is  very  mysterious.  You  could  not  re- 
ceive Mrs.  Devine  because  she  was  a  woman." 

"Surely  you  must  see,  dear,  that  if  I  cannot  re- 
ceive women,  I  ought  not  to  receive  men." 

"These  refinements  are  beyond  me." 


118  ROGER  HUNT. 

Voice,  words,  and  manner  hurt  her  deeply ;  but 
evidently  his  failure  to  understand  was  perfectly 
honest.  He  \vould  not,  she  believed,  draw  her  into 
any  situation  that  would  convey  a  slighting  opin- 
ion on  his  part.  He  surrounded  her  with  every 
possible  care  and  attention  in  other  respects,  but 
failed  entirely  to  comprehend  matters  of  this  kind. 
It  was  because  he  himself  was  so  strong  and  fear- 
less, she  tried  to  think,  that  all  signs  of  weakness 
in  others  irritated  him. 

"It  —  it  hurts  me,  Roger,  that  you  do  not  see 
how  I  feel  about  some  things ;  but  I  know  you  do 
not  mean  it.  I  will  receive  your  friend,  since  you 
wish  it." 

"I  wish  you  to  do  nothing,"  he  replied  coldly; 
"you  have  not  the  courage  to  stand  by  afterward. 
We  have  had  enough  of  that.  When  two  people 
undertake  what  you  and  I  have  undertaken,  the 
least  they  can  do  is  to  try  to  live  up  to  it." 

'"Live  up  to  it! '  "  she  exclaimed,  the  last  bar- 
riers of  restraint  and  caution  giving  way.  "You 
ask  me  to  live  down  to  it,  I  think." 

She  broke  away  from  him  abruptly  and  left  the 
room,  locking  herself  in  her  chamber,  where  she 
cried  herself  into  a  blinding  headache,  which  kept 
her  in  bed  the  next  day,  and  furnished  the  excuse 
for  her  non-appearance  when  the  expected  guest 
came. 

Roger  was  more  deeply  displeased  with  her  than 
ever  before,  and  treated  her  for  days  with  marked 
coldness.  Gradually,  however,  the  affair  seemed 


ROGER  HUNT.  119 

to  pass.  Each  kept  a  shamed  remembrance  of  it, 
and  felt  the  discouragement  it  offered  to  the  future, 
but  they  were  growing  dulled  to  these  experiences. 
Eleanor  exerted  herself  with  fresh  and  contrite 
energy  to  uphold  their  tottering  happiness,  to 
please  Roger  in  ways  it  was  easy  to  please;  but 
the  strained  expression  of  her  face,  the  eager  rest- 
lessness of  all  her  movements,  the  bright  spot  of 
color  that  came  and  went  in  the  thin  cheeks,  all 
spoke  of  a  strength  upheld  by  failing  sources  within. 
Still,  she  tried. 

Some  time  before  this  incident  they  had  planned 
a  series  of  short  excursions  to  neighboring  points, 
one  of  which  was  to  be  a  three  days'  visit  to  the 
ruins  of  Pa?stum,  which  Roger  wished  to  examine. 
Eleanor  was  in  more  cheerful  spirits  than  she  had 
been  for  a  long  time,  as  she  completed  the  prep- 
arations for  their  departure.  The  clouds  were 
lifting  a  little,  she  thought.  Roger  had  been  more 
kind  to  her  for  the  past  few  days,  and  she  had  been 
able  to  banish  distracting  thoughts,  and  devote  her- 
self wholly  to  him.  She  had  spent  the  morning 
copying  for  him,  and  he  had  teased  her,  as  he  used 
to  do,  about  her  long,  slanting  hand.  He  was  a 
better  penman  than  she,  and  it  was  but  a  feigned 
service  she  rendered  him  in  this  way,  one  of  the 
pretty  deceptions  of  their  earlier  days,  but  that 
only  proved  Roger's  goodness  the  more.  She  went 
to  bed  early  that  she  might  get  the  full  rest  she 
needed,  and  fell  into  a  sound  sleep  that  lasted  until 
morning. 


120  EOGEB  HUNT. 

Some  malign  spirit  must  have  watched  beside 
her,  for  she  awoke  unrefreshed,  with  a  dull  head- 
ache, and  the  feeling,  she  knew  so  well,  of  sick 
depression  at  the  heart.  It  was  as  if  she  found  her- 
self suddenly  prostrated  with  some  old  malady. 
She  rose  and  dressed,  but  the  depressed  feeling 
still  clung  to  her  like  cold  mist.  All  the  old  mo- 
tives, her  desire  to  please  Roger,  the  fear  of  losing 
his  love,  had  faded  and  were  naught.  She  had 
neither  will  nor  desire  for  anything.  She  listened 
to  Roger's  talk  at  the  breakfast -table  with  dull 
ears,  and  followed  his  preparations  to  depart  with 
slow  indecision. 

At  last,  when  he  was  ready,  with  hat  in  hand, 
and  valise  strapped  over  his  shoulder,  she  paused 
in  the  act  of  putting  on  her  bonnet,  and  laid  it 
down. 

"Couldn't  you  go  without  me?" 

He  looked  at  her  in  surprise. 

"I  —  I  don't  feel  very  well,"  she  added  in  a  lit- 
tle confusion. 

"Then  we  will  both  stay  at  home,  and  take 
another  day."  The  tone  was  kind,  but  he  showed 
some  natural  disappointment. 

"No,  no.  There  is  no  reason  why  you  should 
not  go."  She  spoke  with  the  faintest  touch  of  ir- 
ritation. She  now  saw  that  what  she  really  wanted 
was  to  be  alone. 

"I  don't  think  I  care  much  about  ruins,  any- 
way," she  added,  trying  to  smile. 

"Your  feeling  has  changed  since  last  night;  but 


ROGER  HUNT.  121 

of  course,  if  you  are  not  well "  —     He  swung  the 
valise  from  his  shoulder. 

"No,  no,"  she  urged  him  again.  "You  must  not 
stay.  There  is  no  need.  I  want  you  to  go."  The 
last  words  were  spoken  in  an  insistent  tone  she 
seldom  used,  and  he  looked  at  her  attentively. 

"I  mean  I  don't  want  you  to  be  disappointed." 
He  set  the  valise  on  the  floor. 

"Very  well,  then,"  with  a  little  petulance,  "  if 
you  are  so  determined,  I  will  go,"  and  she  took  up 
her  bonnet  with  an  aggrieved  air. 

"I  must  say  I  don't  understand  this,"  said 
Roger.  "If  you  mean  that  you  want  to  get  rid 
of  me"  — 

She  made  no  reply,  feeling  displeased  in  a  new 
direction.  He  did  not  often  speak  so  coarsely. 

"You  needn't  go,"  he  added  sarcastically,  as 
she  began  tying  her  bonnet  strings,  "for  I  shall." 

He  lifted  the  valise  and  flung  it  over  his  shoul- 
der again.  She  dropped  her  hands,  and  looked  at 
him  helplessly. 

"You  know  I  didn't  mean  that;  I  only  meant 
I  ought  not  to  spoil  your  pleasure.  I  don't  see 
why  I  should  go  if  I  don't  want  to." 

"You  need  n't." 

"I  mean,  I  don't  see  why  you  should  care 
whether  I  go  or  not." 

"Very  well.  I  won't  care."  He  adjusted  the 
strap  more  securely  on  his  shoulder.  She  looked 
at  him  tremblingly,  then  sinking  into  a  chair, 
broke  into  tears.  He  would  not  look  at  her  at 


122  ROGER  HUNT. 

first,  and  was  strongly  tempted  to  leave  the  room ; 
but  half  maddened  by  her  sobs  and  the  useless- 
ness  of  the  entire  scene,  he  drew  near  and  looked 
down  on  her  with  a  face  of  mingled  bewilderment 
and  blame.  Her  tears  flowed  faster. 

"Eleanor,  what  is  the  matter?" 

"Nothing,"  hiding  her  face  convulsively  in  her 
handkerchief.  Lifting  it  again  she  looked  at  him 
wildly.  "Everything,"  she  broke  out  impetuously, 
waving  him  away.  "Everything." 

He  bit  his  lip,  and  turned  sharply  from  her. 
Again  the  impulse  seized  him  to  leave  her  and  go 
on  his  way,  but  he  dared  not,  and  came  reluctantly 
back  to  her  side.  She  grew  a  little  quieter. 

"Oh,  go  without  me,"  she  said,  looking  up  at 
him,  tears  still  running  down  her  cheeks.  "I  de- 
serve you  should.  I  deserve  you  should  never  care 
for  me  again." 

He  schooled  himself  to  patience,  and  sat  down 
near  her.  Soon  she  checked  her  tears,  and  looked 
at  him  penitently. 

"I  will  bathe  my  eyes  and  then  we  will  go,"  and 
she  started  to  rise.  He  placed  his  hand  on  her 
arm. 

"You  cannot  go  now." 

"It  is  not  too  late,"  she  urged,  looking  ashamed. 

"You  are  in  no  condition  to  go.  It  will  give 
you  a  headache." 

She  had  that  already,  but  did  not  say  so. 

"I  can't  bear  to  disappoint  you  so,"  she  mur- 
mured. 


ROGER  HUNT.  123 

"You  needn't  disappoint  me.  I'll  do  what  I 
can  to  help  you  not  to,"  with  a  melancholy  smile. 
"I  will  go  without  you." 

She  looked  up  at  him  quickly.  This  self-re- 
straint disturbed  her  more  than  his  anger  did. 

"Good-by."  He  rose,  and  bending  above  her, 
gravely  kissed  her.  Her  lips  trembled  and  she 
looked  at  him  timidly.  ^ 

"I  have  treated  you  shamefully." 

"Never  mind  that  now,"  he  said  hastily. 

"  You  are  obliged  to  see  the  ruins  any  way,  are  n't 
you?"  she  asked  penitently.  "You  are  going  to 
write  about  them;  it  wasn't  to  be  merely  a  pleas- 
ure trip?" 

"That 'sail  right." 

She  followed  him  to  the  door. 

"I  don't  know  whether  I  'm  doing  right  or  not," 
she  said  with  a  sigh,  as  they  paused  a  moment  in 
the  narrow  arched  entrance.  "I  don't  believe  I 
could  go  now,  any  way,"  pressing  her  hands  to  her 
throbbing  temples. 

"You  had  better  lie  down."  His  face  still  wore 
a  look  of  restrained  quiet,  and  his  eyes  failed  to 
meet  hers,  as  he  kissed  her  again  and  bade  her 
good-by.  Her  own  were  full  of  tearful  entreaty. 
She  clung  to  him  and  a  little  sob  broke  from  her, 
but  he  put  her  away  and  left  her. 


IX. 

SHE  cried  a  little  when  she  was  alone,  but  it 
was  only  a  gentle  after-shower,  that  had  a  restoring 
enect.  When  she  grew  calmer  she  said  it  was  bet- 
ter for  both  that  Roger  had  gone  without  her. 
Few  married  people,  she  reflected,  lived  in  such 
constant  companionship  as  they  did.*  Remorse 
growing  fainter,  she  felt  an  undeniable  sense  of  re- 
lief at  being  alone.  She  smiled  mournfully  at  the 
thought  of  growing  tired  of  Roger,  but  it  was  true 
each  would  experience  a  new  kind  of  happiness  in 
the  reunion  to  follow  this  first  parting.  It  would 
be  all  the  sweeter  for  their  quarrel. 

But  Eleanor  did  not  want  any  more  quarrels. 
They  were  harmless  enough,  perhaps,  with  married 
people,  whom  habit  and  the  external  bond  that 
holds  them  suffer  to  behave  as  naturally  as  they 
like;  but  they  were  full  of  unseen  dangers  here. 
She  blamed  herself  wholly  for  this  one,  and  re- 
solved more  strongly  than  before  to  control  these 
variable  moods,  to  bring  this  habit  of  useless  self- 
questioning  to  an  end.  Her  duty  was  to  Roger 
alone,  not  to  the  world  they  had  turned  their  backs 
upon. 

Roger  remained  away  three  days.  At  the  end 
of  that  time  Eleanor  had  experienced  all  the  pain 


ROGER  HUNT.  125 

and  loss  of  loneliness,  along  with  its  benefits,  and 
looked  eagerly  for  his  return.  She  decked  the 
rooms  with  flowers,  and,  with  Flora  McDonald's 
aid,  prepared  a  little  fete,  putting  on  Roger's  fa- 
vorite dress  and  awaiting  him  witli  girlish  expec- 
tancy. 

At  the  first  glance  she  saw  he  was  still  displeased 
with  her.  She  had  half  expected  this,  and  tried 
not  to  notice,  but  her  heart  sank.  She  deserved 
to  be  punished,  and  Roger,  she  had  learned,  despite 
his  theories,  knew  how  to  punish,  almost  as  well  as 
Dante. 

Lying  in  the  shade  of  a  mass  of  ruined  marbles 
the  day  before,  Roger  had  reviewed  his  situation 
and  decided  he  had  reached  another  turning-point. 
His  life  was  already  liberally  strewn  with  these 
moral  milestones,  periods  of  culminating  thought 
and  feeling  on  certain  subjects,  that  pointed  an- 
other start  in  a  new  direction.  An  early  quarrel 
with  his  widowed  mother,  just  before  he  went  to 
college,  gave  rise  to  the  first ;  ^several  minor  differ- 
ences with  his  classmates,  his  first  threatened  rup- 
ture with  Kitty  Somers,  and  the  abandonment  of 
his  home,  worked  the  others.  It  was  now  time  to 
erect  one  more.  He  went  over  the  past  and  mapped 
out  the  future.  He  had  a  gift  for  theorizing,  and 
a  pitiless  way  of  laying  out  lines  of  conduct  for 
himself  and  others,  employing  a  dramatist's  skill 
in  invention. 

He  began  by  making  the  first  distinct  acknow- 
ledgment of  his  disappointment  in  Eleanor.  This 


126  BOGEB  HUNT. 

is  a  momentous  point  for  any  lover  to  reach,  espe- 
cially one  of  Hunt's  intense  and  brooding  nature. 
Wiser  men  than  he,  if  not  so  bold,  choose  not  to 
drag  disappointments  of  this  kind  into  full  con- 
sciousness. Honest  confession  may  be  good  for 
the  soul,  but  often  for  its  slighter  ailments  only. 
Roger  Hunt,  however,  had  long  since  formed  the 
habit  of  baring  all  his  mental  processes  to  the  full 
daylight.  He  called  this  honesty. 

Where  once  Eleanor  had  been  his  chief  inspira- 
tion and  joy,  she  was  now  an  admitted  care.  In- 
stead of  promoting  his  happiness,  she  thwarted  it. 
He  saw  himself  in  the  light  of  a  man  likely  to  be 
hindered  and  seriously  disturbed  in  his  general 
plan  of  life.  It  behooved  him,  therefore,  to  pre- 
vent this  if  he  could. 

Oddly  enough,  perhaps,  Roger  never  once 
thought  of  putting  Eleanor  away  from  him.  He 
had  tried  that  sort  of  experiment  once,  and  great 
minds,  we  are  told,  do  not  repeat  themselves.  Let 
him  have  the  credit  of  holding  himself  more  strictly 
bound  here,  because  in  men's  eyes  he  was  bound  not 
at  all.  Affection  and  sympathy  might  give  way, 
but  a  certain  old-time  chivalry  had  always  been 
strong  in  him,  though  sometimes  waywardly  exer- 
cised. He  was  not  the  man  to  desert  a  woman  in 
Eleanor's  position. 

But,  lying  there  in  the  shadow  of  a  broken  col- 
umn, unconscious  symbol  of  the  human  life  dream- 
ing and  speculating  at  its  feet,  he  took  the  firm 
and  formal  resolve  that  she  should  stand  in  his  way 


ROGER  HUNT.  127- 

no  longer.  As  he  had  taken  this  journey  without 
her,  so  he  would  go  on  through  life,  free  and  un- 
hindered. He,  too,  had  been  sensible  of  the  ben- 
efits of  solitude  the  past  three  days.  He  could  live 
alone,  if  need  be ;  if  the  need  were  imposed,  that  is, 
in  another's  failing  trust  or  understanding  of  him. 

For  most  of  Roger  Hunt's  resolutions  took  the 
form  of  accusations  against  some  one  else.  Elea- 
nor, he  said  to  himself,  had  failed  him.  She  no 
longer  truly  loved  him.  If  her  love  were  what  it 
should  be,  it  would  obliterate  all  other  feeling, 
every  motive  and  desire  that  checked  or  opposed  it. 
He  recalled  the  better  words  she  had  let  fall  in 
their  late  talks  together,  letting  displeased  memory 
crystallize  them  into  hard  and  unforgivable  shape. 
Whatever  Eleanor  did  or  suffered  by  reason  of  her 
own  nature,  the  claims  of  her  peculiar  personality, 
he  had  never  even  remotely  considered.  Like 
many  a  man  besides,  he  knew  and  estimated  the 
woman  of  his  choice  solely  in  her  relation  to  him- 
self. 

Pursuing  his  thoughts,  he  arranged  his  future 
course  on  grounds  at  once  purely  abstract  and 
wholly  personal  to  himself.  He  wished  to  lead  a 
tranquil  life.  A  scholar  needs  mental  quiet 
above  everything  else,  which  must  not  be  disturbed 
by  recurring  periods  of  emotional  excitement. 
Such  was  his  power  of  self-delusion  that  he  did  not 
dream  he  was  at  this  very  time  laboring  under  in- 
tense excitement,  the  greater  that  it  was  able  to 
shape  itself  to  such  cold  and  deadly  purposes. 


128  ROGER  HUNT. 

He  repeated  that  a  scholar  must  be  surrounded 
with  harmonious  conditions;  if  they  do  not  arise 
naturally,  they  must  be  arranged  for.  He  would 
do  nothing  harsh  or  unjust,  but  he  would  live  his 
life.  He  believed  a  brilliant  intellectual  career 
awaited  him,. which  the  social  cloud  under  which 
he  lived  could  no  more  dim  than  the  deer-stealing 
did  Shakespeare's.  A  man  of  mind  makes  his  own 
way  in  the  world,  he  had  told  Eleanor  many  times. 
A  woman  of  mind  may  do  the  same,  he  had  added, 
and  cited  examples;  but  her  spirit  had  failed  to 
meet  his  on  this  point.  She  was  only  a  loving 
woman,  misled  in  a  false  direction. 

Roger's 'present  behavior  did  not  make  things 
easier  for  her.  Days  passed  and  still  he  kept  up 
the  manner  that  marked  his  return.  He  was  polite 
and  attentive,  never  unkind,  more  equable  in  man- 
ner than  she  had  ever  known  him  before,  but  she 
felt  herself  kept  at  arm's  length  in  everything. 
She  was  patient  and  uncomplaining  at  first,  but 
after  a  while  the  feeling  of  hurt  surprise  sharpened 
into  resentment,  and  she  grew  cold  and  reserved 
in  turn,  keeping  herself  apart  from  him ;  but  if  he 
noticed  the  change  he  made  no  sign. 

By  degrees  she  woke  to  the  knowledge  that  her 
empire  was  over. 

Then  followed  a  few  hours  of  wild  despair,  and 
terrified  visions  of  the  future,  to  end  which,  and 
to  know  the  worst,  Eleanor  resolved  to  speak  to 
Roger.  One  day,  as  he  was  rising  from  the  table, 
she  spoke  his  name  entreatingly,  and  with  a  slight 
accent  of  fear. 


ROGER  HUNT.  129 

"I  —  I  wish  to  speak  to  you,"  she  said,  rising, 
and  going  towards  him.  The  strain  'of  the  last 
ten  days  had  told  on  her  terribly.  She  was  very 
pale,  and  large  blue  rings  under  her  eyes  told  the 
number  of  sleepless  nights  she  had  passed.  She 
was  five  years  younger  than  Roger,  but  looked  as 
many  years  older.  She  trembled  as  she  stood  be- 
fore him,  while  her  thin  hands  clasped  and  un- 
clasped each  other  nervously.  Any  other  man 
would  have  been  moved,  just  to  look  at  her;  but 
Roger  had  resolved  not  to  be  moved.  He  waited 
for  her  to  proceed,  not  looking  at  her. 

"Roger,  what  does  it  all  mean?  I  can't  live  in 
this  way." 

The  muscles  in  her  throat  worked  painfully,  and 
she  put  up  her  hand  to  relieve  the  pressure. 
Roger  lowered  his  eyes,  then  raised  them  again. 
Their  coldness  chilled  her  to  the  heart. 

"Roger,  don't  look  at  me  like  that.  What 
have  I  done?  I  know  I  was  wrong  that  day.  I 
am  always  wrong,  but, "  struggling  to  smile  a  little, 
"haven't  I  been  punished  enough?" 

"I  have  no  desire  to  punish  you."  This  was  not 
true,  but  perhaps  he  thought  it  was.  "On  the 
contrary,  I  should  like  to  make  you  happy,  but  I 
seem  to  have  lost  the  power." 

"Roger!"  reproachfully.  "Who  could  make 
me  happy  if  not  you  ?  It  is  not  your  fault  if  I  am 
not  happy,  nor  —  nor  mine." 

"Yet  there  is  a  reason  for  it,  I  suppose,  since 
you  admit  the  fact." 


130  ROGER  HUNT. 

"I  do  not  admit  the  fact.  The  reason,  if  there 
were  any,  could  be  but  one,  —  my  love  for  you,"  her 
voice  sinking. 

"I  should  like  a  better  proof  of  that  love." 

She  looked  at  him  with  wide,  reproachful  eyes. 
"Proof!"  she  repeated  wonderingly.  "Proof!" 
with  a  bitter  accent.  "  Have  I  not  given  proof  ? 
When  a  woman  gives  her  soul  for  a  man  "  — 

She  stopped,  aghast  at  her  own  words.  Some 
malicious  spirit  must  have  been  waiting  to  catch 
and  trip  her.  She  meant  them  not  at  all. 

"Roger,  I  did  not  mean  that,"  stepping  towards 
him.  But  his  face  had  hardened  into  iron ;  light- 
ning gleams  flashed  from  his  eyes. 

"If  that  is  the  way  you  look  at  it,  what  must 
you  think  of  me?"  he  cried.  "Thank  Heaven,  I 
am  not  yet  sunk  so  low  in  my  own  mind.  You 
talk  of  love,  yet  can  desecrate  it  with  a  thought 
like  that!  You  can  think  of  me  as  a  vulgar  ad- 
venturer! " 

"Roger,  Roger,  I  do  not!  " 

"You  no  longer  believe  in  me!  You  are  sorry 
for  what  you  have  done!  " 

"No,  Roger,  no,"  faltering  beneath  his  look. 

"You  would  not  do  it  again?"  His  voice  rang 
out  like  a  challenge.  His  stern  gaze  held  her  like 
a  magnet;  then  she  cowered  and  shrunk  before  it. 
With  a  low  moan  she  sank  down  on  a  chair,  bury- 
ing her  face  in  her  outstretched  arms  on  the  table 
before  her. 

"I  would  die  for  you,  Roger;  I  wish  I  could." 


ROGER  HUNT.  131 

"You  are  not  required  to  die."  The  words 
stung  her. 

"Oh,  I  know,  dying  is  too  easy,"  she  broke  out, 
and,  rising,  rushed  away  and  made  her  escape  from 
him. 

She  knew  now  that  a  permanent  change  had 
come  over  Roger's  feeling  for  her.  She  had  been 
witness  more  than  once  to  the  sudden  revulsions  of 
feeling  that  he  was  apt  to  experience  towards  people 
he  had  once  liked;  now  it  was  she,  herself,  who 
was  to  be  the  object  of  this  altered  regard,  this 
fixed  estrangement. 

The  next  day  Roger  left  her  on  another  explor- 
ing tour  in  aid  of  his  studies,  this  time  with  no 
mention  of  desire  for  company ;  and  henceforth  she 
was  given  to  understand,  not  in  words,  but  in 
countless  little  ways  that  speak  so  much  more,  that 
he  meant  to  pursue  his  way  without  her.  She 
knew  he  felt  himself  deeply  wronged  at  her  hands. 
Outwardly  he  treated  her  with  nearly  the  same 
consideration  as  before;  was  attentive  to  all  her 
wants,  fetching  her  shawl,  accompanying  her  on 
her  walks,  and  guarding  her  against  imprudences; 
but  holding  himself  aloof  from  her  day  after  day. 
For  herself,  she  struggled  against  this  state  of 
things,  and  submitted  to  it  by  turns,  nourished 
hope  and  then  despair,  was  tearfully  patient  one 
day,  stolidly  resigned  the  next.  Under  this  severe 
inward  strain  her  frail  physical  health  threatened 
to  give  way.  She  grew  weaker,  and  told  herself 
with  despairing  hopefulness  that  she  should  not 
live  long.  Roger  would  be  free  from  her  soon. 


132  ROGER  HUNT. 

Several  weeks  passed  in  this  way,  when  some- 
thing happened  that  marked  another  turning- 
point,  hurting  her  as  nothing  had  yet  done,  yet,  in 
a  way,  confirming  belief  in  Roger  anew. 

He  entered  the  house  one  day  with  an  American 
newspaper  in  his  hand,  his  manner  betraying  a 
little  excitement.  Calling  her  into  the  study,  he 
pointed  out  a  short  paragraph,  marked  with  a  blue 
pencil.  It  was  the  notice  of  the  death  of  Annie 
Hunt,  in  the  asylum  in  which  her  husband  had  left 
her.  The  blood  pulsed  wildly  through  Eleanor's 
veins,  as  she  read  the  few  printed  lines,  and  she 
turned  an  anxious  and  questioning  gaze  on  Roger. 
The  paper  was  a  month  old. 

"We  can  be  married  now,"  he  said,  after  a  mo- 
ment's silence.  Her  heart  beat  faster  still.  "We 
will  go  to  Florence,  and  have  the  ceremony  per- 
formed there.  I  will  write  the  consul  to-night." 

She  looked  at  him  with  large,  startled  eyes. 
His  own  were  bent  on  the  paper.  If  there  had 
been  a  ray  of  light  in  his  face,  a  sign  of  gladness 
for  the  poor  relief  such  an  act  might  bring  to  her, 
his  words  would  have  melted  her  at  once,  stirring 
generous  admiration  beyond  the  need  to  profit  by 
them,  perhaps. 

"You  would  really  marry  me,  Roger,  now?" 
she  questioned  him  mournfully. 

"Now?  "  he  repeated  uncomprehendingly. 

"When  you  no  longer  love  me?" 

If  he  had  really  ceased  to  love  her,  that  might 
be  a  reason  the  more,  with  many  high-minded  men, 


ROGER  HUNT.  133 

for  offering  her  every  other  means  of  protection  and 
grace  in  his  power;  and  Roger  Hunt  had  as  true 
instincts  in  some  matters  as  his  less  erring  fellow- 
creatures  ;  but  this  was  hardly  a  line  of  argument 
to  satisfy  a  woman  placed  as  Eleanor  was.  He 
recognized  the  double  appeal  in  her  words,  and 
answered  indirectly. 

"I  cannot  pretend  the  matter  is  important  to 
me.  You  know  my  feeling  on  such  points.  It  is 
your  doubts  and  scruples  I  wish  to  satisfy.  I 
would  satisfy  my  own  if  I  had  any.  I  seek  your 
happiness."  He  really  believed  this.  "Events 
seem  to  prove  that  I  wronged  you  once.  I  now 
offer  you  such  reparation  as  lies  in  my  power." 

"Reparation!  "  she  repeated  reproachfully.  "I 
never  said  you  wronged  me.  I  never  had  such  a 
thought.  I  alone  am  to  blame  for  what  I  did." 

"Precisely,"  he  replied  quickly,  "'to  blame.' 
That  is  the  way  I  know  you  regard  it." 

"Roger,  why  do  you  torture  me  so?  "  she  cried, 
in  an  anguished  tone,  "turning  and  twisting  my 
poor  words." 

"Do  you  mean  you  hr.ve  no  sense  of  blame?  " 

She  was  silent.     He  smiled  bitterly. 

"No  woman  can  have  a  sense  of  blame  in  a  case 
like  ours,  without  reflecting  gross  dishonor  on  the 
man  "  — 

"That  is  not  true,"  she  interrupted  warmly. 

"We  will  not  discuss  the  point.  We  should 
have  learned  by  this  time  the  uselessness  of  discus- 
sion. Will  you  go  with  me  to  Florence?  " 


134  ROGER  HUNT. 

/ 

"No."  It  required  an  effort  to  speak  the  word, 
but  she  mastered  it.  Pride  and  affection  had  re- 
ceived a  crushing  blow  at  once.  Life  never  seemed 
so  poor  a  failure  as  now ;  the  pain  and  humiliation 
of  this  moment  could  never  be  equaled.  Roger 
looked  at  her  with  new  perplexity  mingled  with  the 
old  displeasure.  What  new  freak  was  this? 

"What  good  will  it  do  now?"  she  said  in  reply 
to  this  look. 

"Most  women  would  think,  a  good  deal." 

"That  is  what  you  have  always  disliked  in  me, 
my  thinking  as  other  women  do.  I  do  not  wish  to 
be  married,"  she  added,  after  a  moment's  pause, 
and  in  another  tone.  "I  do  not  wish"  —she 
checked  herself. 

The  vision  of  that  other  woman,  cold  in  her 
loveless  coffin,  had  risen  before  her.  How  could 
she  profit  by  a  thing  like  that?  It  was  like  mur- 
der. The  thought  of  Roger  and  herself  standing 
before  the  altar,  seeking  the  sanction  of  rights  they 
had  stolen,  sickened  her.  No;  she  would  let  her 
deed  stand. 

"You  had  better  reconsider  the  matter,"  he  said 
coldly.  "I  shall  return  home  now,  and  " 

"Going  home?"  That  did,  indeed,  put  the 
matter  in  a  new  light;  but  when  she  looked  into 
his  face,  rayless  as  a  piece  of  black  velvet,  her 
pride  came  to  the  rescue  of  her  fears,  and  she  re- 
peated her  decision,  with  a  touch  of  haughtiness. 

"As  you  please,"  he  said,  and  understanding 
the  audience  was  terminated,  she  left  him. 


ROGER  HUNT.  135 

A  few  days  later  she  entered  the  study  unan- 
nounced, and  hurriedly  requested  to  speak  with 
him.  She  was  strangely  agitated,  in  a  way  he  had 
never  seen  before.  Her  face  wore  a  look  newly 
shamed  and  startled,  yet  had  an  uplifted  expres- 
sion, too.  He  rose  to  place  a  chair  for  her,  but 
she  stopped  him. 

"I  —  I  have  changed  my  mind,  Roger.  I  think 
differently  about  it  now." 

He  did  not  understand,  and  looked  at  her  in 
puzzled  surprise. 

"I  will  go  with  you  to  Florence." 

Then  he  understood,  and  laid  down  his  pen. 

"Not  for  any  good  it  can  bring  me,"  she  went 
on,  with  increasing  agitation.  "Not  for  ourselves 
at  all.  —  Oh,  Roger,  Roger,  you  must  love  me  a  lit- 
tle now.  Take  me  back,  Roger,  take  me  back," 
and  she  threw  herself,  weeping,  on  his  breast,  where 
he  was  constrained  to  hold  and  quiet  her.  It  was 
by  degrees  he  learned  the  truth.  Not  for  herself, 
but  for  the  sake  of  the  unborn  life,  fluttering  be- 
neath her  heart,  she  would  go  with  him. 


XL 

ROGER  and  Eleanor  returned  home  early  in  the 
following  spring.  They  sailed  directly  for  New 
York,  where  they  remained  several  weeks.  A  lucky 
accident  threw  apiece  of  literary  work  into  Roger's 
hands,  the  examination  of  some  ancient  Indian  re- 
mains on  the  western  banks  of  the  Mississippi,  in 
a  locality  famed  for  its  fine  air  and  commercial 
enterprise.  He  took  Eleanor  with  him,  meaning 
to  make  but  a  temporary  stay,  but  as  the  climate 
proved  beneficial  to  her,  and  his  interest  in  his 
studies  grew,  they  remained  longer.  Both  felt  the 
advantages  of  this  distant  separation  from  earlier 
scenes  and  associations.  It  was  like  living  in  a 
new  world;  and  shortly  after  Eleanor's  child  was 
born,  Roger  decided  to  make  Garrison  his  future 
home,  where  they  lived  fifteen  years. 

As  often  happens,  Eleanor  gained  a  new  lease 
of  life  with  that  of  her  child,  and  though  always 
delicate  seemed  nearly  restored  to  health  for  several 
years.  As  often  happens,  also,  the  younger  life 
paid  the  penalty.  Estella  was  a  puny  and  sickly 
baby,  requiring  much  care.  She  was  a  peculiar 
child,  and  had  not  escaped  the  infection  of  the 
strangely-mingled  natures  that  formed  her  own. 
Physically  and  mentally  also  to  a  degree,  she  re- 


ROGER  HUNT.  137 

seinbled  her  father.  Dark,  expressive  eyes,  with 
a  sensitive  mouth  and  intelligent  brow,  showed  a 
nature  at  once  passionate  and  susceptible,  which  a 
reserved  disposition,  that  bordered  on  the  distrust- 
ful, held  in  check. 

It  was  natural  that  during  her  early  years,  when 
she  was  ill  and  needing  care,  the  child  should  seem 
to  cling  to  the  mother  and  avoid  the  father;  but 
as  time  progressed,  and  she  grew  stronger,  able  to 
run  about  and  play  like  other  children,  what  had 
once  been  a  necessity  seemed  to  have  grown  a 
habit.  At  least  this  was  the  way  Eleanor  tried  to 
reason  about  it,  watching  the  two  with  much  solici- 
tude. The  little  Estella  seemed  at  the  same  time 
to  shrink  from  ana  be  intensely  curious  about  her 
father.  She  would  sit  watching  him,  with  big 
thoughtful  eyes,  an  hour  at  a  time,  apparently 
neither  unhappy  in  his  presence  nor  afraid  of  him, 
only  deeply  puzzled  and  reflective.  If  he  spoke  to 
her  she  answered  him  with  a  gravity  that  was  al- 
most comic,  repelling  him  as  his  first  child  had 
done  when  he  tried  to  play  with  her ;  his  awkward- 
ness here  demonstrating  his  insincerity  to  her 
acute,  childish  intelligence.  She  would  submit 
to  be  instructed  by  him,  not  amused.  For  com- 
panionship, she  sought  her  mother,  whom  she  at 
once  idolized  and  overruled,  loved  and  obeyed  or 
disobeyed  as  the  whim  seized  her. 

Roger  was  both  piqued  and  flattered  by  his 
daughter's  behavior  towards  him.  Her  likeness 
to  himself  pleased  him  and  awakened  expectation ; 


138  ROGER  HUNT. 

and  as  she  grew  older  and  began  to  study  under 
his  direction,  her  marked  precocity  in  certain  ways 
gratified  him  still  more.  When  he  noticed  her 
failing  tenderness  at  all,  it  was  to  attribute  it  to 
the  mother's  influence,  who  was  herself  the  object 
of  much  daughterly  petting  and  caressing;  but  he 
fancied  he  missed  these  marks  of  attention  much 
more  than  he  did. 

Eleanor  had  hoped  much  from  the  birth  of  her 
child  in  the  restored  relations  between  herself  and 
Roger,  but  she  was  disappointed.  She  had  never 
won  back  her  lover,  who  had  been  less  a  lover  still 
since  he  became  a  husband,  though  scrupulously 
attentive  to  all  her  needs.  They  lived  unde^  the 
same  roof,  but  solitary  and  apart,  Roger  devoting 
himself  more  and  more  to  his  books,  Eleanor  try- 
ing to  live  in  hej  child. 

A  child  compensates  for  nearly  everything  else 
to  most  women,  the  maternal  sentiment  easily  sup- 
plying the  place  of  the  conjugal,  but  it  was  not  so 
with  Eleanor.  The  supreme  love  of  her  life  was 
that  which  ached  and  quivered  in  her  heart  still 
every  time  she  thought  of  Roger.  Though  the 
hope  of  reconciliation  grew  fainter  year  after  year, 
she  fed  on  it  still  in  her  dreams.  Of  late  the 
hope  had  mingled  with  another,  which  is  also  the 
final  dread.  When  she  was  dead,  Roger  would 
think  kindly  of  her  again,  and  restore  her  to  the 
old  place  in  his  heart. 

The  change  in  Roger  was  complete,  and  had  now 
been  so  long  established  that  it  had  become  fixed 


ROGER  HUNT.  139 

habit,  yet  Eleanor  had  never  outgrown  the  sur- 
prise of  it.  Every  day  she  marveled  anew.  Was 
this  the  old  Roger,  this  man  of  the  grave  unsmiling 
countenance,  who  paid  formal  visits  to  her  room 
and  then  withdrew  into  himself,  who  seldom  spoke 
with  her  except  on  some  business  or  household 
topic ;  this  the  impassioned  lover  who  had  sacrificed 
everything  for  her?  Was  it  a  sacrifice?  she  asked 
herself,  and  was  it  for  her  ?  How  little  women  know 
men  before  they  have  displeased  them! 

Roger  himself,  as  she  knew,  believed  he  was 
behaving  most  commendably.  The  wisdom  of  his 
conduct  was  proved  in  his  own  mind  by  its  delib- 
erateness.  A  single  purpose  ruled  him ;  but  there 
were  times  when  this  singleness  of  purpose  seemed 
to  Eleanor  almost  demoniac.  It  was  as  relentless 
as  hate.  Only  God,  whose  righteous  motive  is 
always  assured,  had  a  right  to  such  an  unbend- 
ing will  as  Roger's.  Human  strength  must  bear 
some  proportion  to  human  weakness,  else  it  be- 
comes devil's  strength.  Such  were  some  of  the 
thoughts  Eleanor  evolved  out  of  her  loneliness. 

Yet  Roger's  strength  was  strength,  she  told  her- 
self, in  more  self -accusing  moods.  She  was  the 
embodiment  of  weakness,  physical  and  moral. 
Roger  was  the  most  consistent  man  she  knew. 
What  he  undertook  he  accomplished;  when  he 
failed,  it  was  circumstances  that  were  to  blame, 
not  he.  If  an  editor  declined  an  article,  he  talked 
of  literary  favoritism,  and  the  intellectual  degen- 
eracy of  the  age ;  if  he  took  cold,  he  blamed  the 


140  ROGER  HUNT. 

weather.  No  wonder  he  grew  tired  of  such  a 
bundle  of  nerves  and  self-contradiction  as  she  was, 
Eleanor  thought.  Yet  she  suffered  —  suffered 
acutely,  both  from  loss  of  love  and  of  love's  ideal. 
But  that  deepest  loss  of  all,  loss  of  the  power  to 
love,  she  had  escaped.  This  power  to  love  showed 
chiefly  now  as  power  to  suffer,  which  was  the  rea- 
son Roger  could  not  understand  it;  yet  since  such 
love  shows  a  moral  sensibility  which  shall  redeem 
and  save  at  last,  its  owner  is  to  be  accounted  for- 
tunate. 

Though  for  a  few  years  Eleanor's  health  im- 
proved, the  seeds  of  disease  were  deeply  planted, 
and  as  Estella  grew  to  girlhood  the  mother's  con- 
dition began  to  fail  again,  then  halted  in  that  long 
period  of  slow  decay  which  belongs  to  old-fashioned 
consumption.  Thus  Estella's  image  of  her  mother 
was  associated  almost  entirely  with  the  sick-room, 
which  was  also  to  her  the  living-room  of  the  house. 
Here  she  brought  her  dolls  and  games,  here  she 
had  learned  to  sew,  and  here,  in  late  years,  she 
brought  her  books  to  learn  the  lessons  recited  in 
the  library.  Flowers  bloomed  in  the  window,  the 
room  was  sunny  and  large;  but  it  was  the  young 
girl's  figure  flitting  in  and  out,  lithe  and  slender 
like  her  father's,  that  brought  real  light  and 
warmth  into  it. 

Estella's  love  for  her  mother  grew  with  the  lat- 
ter's  dependence  on  her,  and  was  of  much  the  same 
worshipful  and  tyrannical  order  she  had  shown 
when  a  child.  She  petted  and  scolded  her,  ac- 


ROGER  HUNT.  141 

cording  to  her  needs,  confided  all  her  young  trou- 
bles and  perplexities  to  her,  and  protected  her 
against  intrusion.  A  competent  nurse  had  charge 
of  the  sick-room,  between  whom  and  Eleanor,  after 
four  years'  association,  the  bond  of  a  warm  personal 
affection  had  grown.  The  cook  ruled  in  the 
kitchen,  and  Roger  kept  for  the  most  part  in  his 
study ;  Estella  alone  seemed  to  have  the  run  of  the 
house. 

The  home  of  the  Hunts  was  one  of  the  most 
tasteful  residences  in  Garrison,  a  stone  cottage, 
with  dormer  windows  and  a  jutting  balcony  or  two, 
which  had  caught  Roger's  eyes,  whose  skill  in  such 
matters  had  made  the  most  of  these  and  similar 
features.  In  the  town's  early  history  it  had  been 
the  officers'  quarters  connected  with  the  garrison 
sent  out  by  the  government  to  protect  the  river  at 
this  point.  It  rested  at  the  foot  of  the  bluff,  on 
the  summit  of  which  stood  the  large  and  showy 
mansion  of  the  chief  magnate  of  the  place,  Thomas 
Clarke,  a  successful  real-estate  dealer,  whose  rapid 
fortunes  were  inseparably  connected  with  those  of 
the  town. 

No  one  had  seen  the  possibilities  of  the  neglected 
cottage  until  Roger  took  it  in  hand.  Then  expres- 
sions of  admiration  and  envy  were  heard  on  all 
sides.  It  was  a  distinct  contrast  to  the  prevailing 
"modern"  architecture  in  which  Garrison  reveled, 
and  no  one  spoke  more  unqualified  praise  of  it  than 
Mrs.  Clarke,  who  had  liked  her  own  house  with  its 
climbing  turrets  and  spreading  porches  very  well 
until  she  saw  this. 


142  ROGER  HUNT. 

Not  that  the  social  aspirations  of  one  in  her  po- 
sition could  have  been  easily  compressed  to  this 
smaller  scale,  but  she  felt  her  taste  corrected  on 
many  points.  It  was  chiefly  in  the  inside  appoint- 
ments of  her  new  neighbor's  abode,  she  felt  regret 
strongest.  Here  also  it  had  been  Roger's  taste 
that  ruled.  Low  ceilings,  neutral-tinted  walls, 
rugs  in  the  place  of  carpets,  cushioned  window- 
seats,  furniture  for  use,  not  adornment,  and  me- 
mentos of  travel  and  cultured  leisure  scattered 
about  in  idle  profusion,  —  these  were  features  of 
housekeeping  which  Garrison,  big,  thriving,  and 
ambitious,  but  "crude,"  as  Mrs.  Clarke  said,  now 
attained  its  first  knowledge  of.  She  went  back  to 
her  gilt-papered  walls  and  plush  upholstery  with  a 
new  feeling  of  distaste  that  she  knew  would  never 
leave  her.  She  felt  that  "Professor"  Hunt,  as  she 
at  once  distinguished  him,  was  an  acquisition  of  an 
unusual  order  to  Garrison  society,  and  congratu- 
lated herself  on  having  one  of  his  manifest  attain- 
ments for  a  neighbor. 

Nina  Clarke  was  two  years  older  than  Estella. 
Like  her,  she  was  an  only  child,  and  had  been 
brought  up  in  the  same  exclusive  fashion,  imposed 
in  the  one  case  by  the  sense  of  wealth  and  social 
prominence,  and  in  the  other  by  rigid  ideas. 
Neither  was  allowed  to  attend  the  public  schools, 
and  Estella  used  to  watch  the  children  enviously 
as  they  went  to  and  fro  to  the  schoolhouse  farther 
down  the  street.  Her  father  was  fitting  her  to 
enter  the  university  at  Monroe  in  a  neighboring 


ROGER  HUNT.  143 

State.  She  had  no  companions  near  her  own  age 
save  Nina.  The  two  girls  liked  each  other  well 
enough,  but  without  enthusiasm,  and  each  lived  by 
herself  a  good  deal.  Their  intimacy  had  increased 
somewhat  during  the  last  year,  and  since  Roger  had 
consented  to  receive  Nina  as  a  pupil.  Though 
Estella's  senior  in  years,  she  was  no  farther  ad- 
vanced in  her  studies,  and  not  being  quick  to 
learn,  as  her  classmate  was,  was  in  danger  of  fall- 
ing behind. 

Thomas  Clarke  was  of  a  physical  type  that 
bespoke  his  social  importance,  big,  florid,  loud- 
mouthed and  flashily  attired,  yet  not  innately  coarse 
or  vulgar.  His  wife,  Lucy  Gray,  was  a  school- 
teacher in  a  small  Connecticut  village  when  he  met 
her ;  though  his  mental  and  social  superior,  she  had 
cheerfully  joined  her  fortunes  to  his,  seeing  in  his 
native  pluck  and  sagacity  the  promise  of  all  the 
success  he  had  since  won. 

Mrs.  Clarke  was  as  ambitious  as  her  husband, 
but  to  finer  issues.  He  was  content  with  the  ma- 
terial prosperity  he  had  won ;  she  wished  to  make 
it  the  basis  for  higher  and  more  difficult  acquire- 
ments. For  recreation  he  kept  a  stock  farm,  and  a 
trained  gardener  who  took  charge  of  the  large  con- 
servatory on  his  place  in  town.  Mrs.  Clarke  was 
proud  of  her  husband's  success  and  of  him  for  se- 
curing it,  but  she  disliked  the  parvenu  element  7that 
abounds  in  new,  unformed  communities  like  Gar- 
rison, and  was  always  on  the  lookout  for  something 
different  with  which  to  grace  her  table  and  enrich 


144  ROGER  HUNT. 

hospitality.  A  man  like  Roger  Hunt  was  to  her  a 
godsend.  To  a  degree,  Garrison  shared  her  pride 
in  him.  Unless  two  or  three  editors  of  the  muni- 
cipal press  and  the  school-superintendent  were  to 
be  counted  such,  he  was  the  only  literary  character 
the  town  could  boast.  The  occasional  appearance 
of  his  name  in  the  current  reviews  and  magazines, 
his  known  authorship  of  two  or  three  books,  his 
secluded  and  scholarly  habits,  all  t  these  helped  the 
popular  imagination  to  idealize  him,  and  set  him 
apart  from  the  common  horde  of  money -getters. 
Roger  fell  into  his  new  position  with  entire  ease 
and  a  sense  of  fitness.  He  could  say,  honestly,  he 
had  not  sought  the  distinction  that  had  befallen 
him,  for  he  took  no  more  pains  to  win  people's 
good  opinion  now  than  he  had  ever  done. 

He  refused  all  social  invitations,  and  thereby 
won,  without  intending  it,  the  reputation  of  being 
a  devoted  husband.  He  cultivated  but  few  ac- 
quaintances, and  had  no  intimate  friends,  though 
he  was  on  a  rather  familiar  footing  with  his  near- 
est neighbors,  the  Clarkes. 

The  two  men,  each  believing  strongly  in  his  own 
right  of  predominance,  were  mutually  hostile  from 
the  first,  but  Thomas  Clarke  was  too  good-natured 
to  quarrel  with  any  one.  Mrs.  Clarke  understood 
his  feeling,  and  to  a  degree  sympathized  with  it, 
but  it  constituted  no  reason  in  her  mind,  nor  for 
that  matter  in  her  husband's,  why  she  should 
abandon  an  acquaintance  that  promised  so  many 
advantages.  Mr.  Clarke  had  as  little  wish  as  he 


ROGER  HUNT.  145 

had  power  to  control  his  wife  in  such  matters. 
The  two  lived  together  in  a  harmony  born  of  gen- 
eral sympathy  with  each  other's  aims,  and  large 
tolerance  for  minor  points  of  difference.' 

Mrs.  Clarke  was  the  type  of  woman,  busy,  self- 
complacent,  ambitious,  which  Roger  usually  held 
in  hearty  dislike ;  but  her  adroitness  had  overcome 
some  of  his  first  prejudices.  Their  relation  was  of 
the  nature  of  a  prolonged  truce.  In  conversation 
they  fenced  and  flattered,  made  bold  demands  for 
benefits  on  both  sides,  and  wren  alone  preserved 
the  sense  of  sincerity  by  criticising  each  other 
freely. 

Roger  liked  the  freedom  of  this  relation  when 
nothing  else  in  it  tempted  him,  while  the  knowledge 
of  influence  possessed  was  as  pleasant  as  ever. 
Though  he  found  much  to  displease  his  taste,  and 
excite  ridicule,  he  was  sensible  also  of  the  mani- 
fest advantages  the  acquaintance  entailed.  Mrs. 
Clarke  also  understood  the  compensatory  value  of 
things.  The  bargaining  instinct  was  as  fully  de- 
veloped in  her  as  in  her  husband,  only  her  trade 
was  not  in  corner-lots  and  quarter-sections. 
When  the  thing  she  wanted  was  not  offered,  she 
knew  how  to  ask  for  it.  Thus,  one  day  she 
brought  the  conversation  round  to  her  daughter 
Nina,  her  deficient  education,  and  the  impover- 
ished means  in  Garrison  to  improve  it.  She  ended 
by  boldly  asking  him  to  become  her  instructor,  and 
he,  though  disliking  it,  felt  obliged  to  consent. 

Nina  was  seventeen  at  this  time,  awkward,  over- 


146  ROGER  HUNT. 

grown,  and  distressingly  bashful.  She  had  inher- 
ited the  assurance  of  neither  of  her  parents,  and 
seemed  born  for  self-effacement.  Any  daughter, 
however  self-confident,  would  have  been  kept  in 
the  background  by  Mrs.  Clarke,  who  though  as 
ambitious  for  Nina  as  for  herself,  did  not  belong  to 
that  order  of  mothers  who  live  only  to  extinguish 
themselves  in  their  children.  The  shyness  of  her 
general  manner  developed  into  absolute  terror 
when  Nina  was  in  the  presence  of  Roger  Hunt. 
She  knew  her  mother's  feeling  about  him,  and 
looked  up  to  him  with  mingled  fascination  and 
fear,  as  a  being  of  another  order,  in  a  way  that 
would  have  flattered  him  keenly  had  he  suspected  it. 
Nina  and  Estella  were  to  begin  Vigil,  and  geom- 
etry together.  The  new  pupil  proved  even  more 
dull  than  Roger  expected.  He  could  not  know 
how  far  expectation  had  produced  this  result,  nor 
how  his  own  manner  operated  to  kill  all  mental 
effort  in  her.  Nina  toiled  like  a  slave,  but  with 
continually  failing  results.  She  would  sit  up  half 
the  night  to  learn  a  lesson  by  rote,  only  to  find 
memory  and  cfturage  fail  her  completely  when 
again  in  her  teacher's  presence.  Many  a  night 
she  cried  herself  to  sleep.  Yet  she  never  thought 
of  seeking  release  for  herself  or  uttering  any  com- 
plaint. She  blamed  her  own  dullness  for  every- 
thing, and  looked  with  envy  upon  Estella,  who 
learned  her  lessons  so  easily,  and  who,  more  won- 
derful still,  did  not  seem  in  the  least  afraid  of  her  ' 
father.  There  was  nothing  Nina  came  to  desire 


ROGER  HUNT.  147 

so  much  as  a  word  of  praise  or  encouragement 
from  this  quarter.  Had  she  shown  a  degree  more 
of  assertion,  manifested  the  least  resentment,  she 
might  have  won  what  she  craved;  for  Roger,  to  do 
him  justice,  did  not  know  he  was  either  unkind 
or  unreasonable;  he  only  knew  he  was  intensely 
bored.  As  it  was,  Nina  longed  and  labored  in 
vain ;  yet  some  element  of  stolid  resistance  in  the 
girl  kept  her  at  work.  Estella  watched  her  with 
mingled  pity  and  curiosity,  sharpened  at  times  by 
a  feeling  like  contempt. 

One  day  she  proved  almost  as  slow  as  Nina  in 
the  construction  of  a  passage  in  their  Latin  exer- 
cise, and  her  father  let  his  irritation  and  sarcasm 
fall  on  both  alike. 

"I  suppose  I  am  stupid,"  Estella  replied  to  one 
of  his  remarks,  "but  it  won't  cure  me  to  tell  me  of 
it.  Why  don't  you  explain  it  to  us?  " 

Nina  looked  at  her  in  frightened  astonishment. 
If  a  ferule  had  made  its  appearance  from  some  con- 
cealed place,  and  Estella  been  asked  to  hold  out 
her  hand,  she  would  not  have  been  surprised. 

"I  expect  you  to  recite  the  lesson.  It  is  my 
part  to  listen,"  her  father  retorted. 

"I  know;  but  if  neither  of  us  can  recite  it," 
swinging  her  foot  idly. 

"That's  a  sweet  confession  to  make.  How 
long  would  you  remember  it  if  I  did  explain?  " 

"I  don't  know,"  was  the  reply,  in  the  same  un- 
disturbed tone,  "but  I  suppose  somebody  must  do 
something,  if  we  are  to  get  on."  Roger  apparently 


148  ROGER  HUNT. 

thought  so  too,  for  he  took  the  book  and  began  a 
clear  though  sharp  exposition  of  the  dark  passage. 
His  words  were  luminous  and  to  the  point,  and 
soon  both  pupils  were  in  entire  mastery  of  former 
difficulties,  one  of  them  feeling  more  than  usually 
abased  over  her  dullness. 

"Thank  you,  papa,"  said  Estella,  in  her  pleas- 
antest  tone,  as  the  two  gathered  up  their  books  to 
leave  the  room;  "you  've  made  it  as  clear  as  day- 
light, has  n't  he,  Nina?" 

"  Humph !  Let  us  hope  the  daylight  will  last, 
at  least  twenty -four  hours." 

"Oh,  but  it  never  does,  you  know,  papa,"  Es- 
tella laughed,  casting  a  saucy  look  backwards,  as 
the  two  passed  through  the  door  together. 

"I  shall  never  please  your  father,"  said  Nina, 
when  they  were  by  themselves. 

"Nobody  pleases  papa  who  tries  very  hard,"  was 
the  reply.  "I  mean,"  Estella  went  on  in  answer 
to  Nina's  look  of  surprise,  "you  shouldn't  think 
so  much  about  pleasing  him;  you  should  think 
about  the  lesson." 

"How  can  I  help  it?  He  makes  me  so  nervous, 
and  I  know  I  am  dreadfully  dull." 

"He  used  to  make  me  nervous,  too,"  said  Es- 
tella, with  an  experienced  air,  "but  I  made  up  my 
mind  not  to  let  him.  What  is  the  use?  It  only 
bothers  and  hinders  you.  If  you  do  the  best  you 
can,  what  more  can  people  expect?  I  think  papa 
is  very  unreasonable  sometimes." 

Estella  had  a  way  of  saying  such  things  that  did 


ROGER  HUNT.  149 

not  seem  disrespectful,  making  candor  look  like 
impartiality. 

"  It  must  be  a  great  trial  to  a  man  so  gifted  as 
your  father  to  teach  a  girl  like  me,"  Nina  went  on 
after  a  moment's  pause. 

Estella  made  no  reply  to  this.  She  was  proud 
of  the  reputation  her  father  had  gained,  but  it  added 
little  warmth  of  feeling.  "Gifted  "  people  are  apt 
to  suffer  some  diminution  of  glory  in  the  minds  of 
those  standing  nearest  them. 

The  lessons  continued  until  the  late  spring,  when 
Nina  accompanied  her  mother  on  a  visit  to  New 
York,  spending  the  summer  at  the  seashore,  and 
not  returning  until  the  middle  of  autumn.  Six 
months  sometimes  accomplishes  marvels  for  a  girl 
just  turning  eighteen.  Nina  left  the  impression 
on  all  her  friends,  as  on  Roger,  of  unformed  girl- 
hood, awkward  and  self-conscious;  but  the  grub 
remains  such  to  outward  vision  up  to  the  moment 
it  slips  the  chrysalis  sheath  and  expands  its  wings 
as  butterfly.  When  Mrs.  Clarke  and  her  daugh- 
ter returned  to  Garrison,  it  was  apparent  to  all  who 
saw  that  the  chrysalis  stage  was  over.  Nina  had 
scarcely  tried  her  wings  as  yet,  but  she  had  learned 
she  had  them.  The  unripe  girlhood  of  a  few 
months  before  had  passed  like  an  ugly  dream. 

Beauty  in  a  woman  brings  a  sense  of  power  which 
more  substantial  traits  arouse  in  a  man;  but  with 
Nina  it  looked  as  if  this  power  were  not  to  be  put 
to  foolish  uses.  When  she  looked  in  the  mirror 
and  saw  the  changed  reflection  of  herself,  she  felt 


150  BOGER  HUNT. 

no  special  elation  or  vanity,  only  gratitude.  She 
had  felt  alone  and  helpless  before;  now  that  peo- 
ple were  beginning  to  notice  her  more  and  say 
kind  things  about  her,  it  meant  that  she  might  find 
some  place  of  real  trust  and  usefulness  among  them, 
perhaps. 

Nina's  beauty  was  of  the  full -flowered  type  that 
startles  at  first  glance,  yet  that  does  not  satiate. 
Her  rather  large  figure  had  lost  its  angles  and  pre- 
sented a  succession  of  curved  outlines  that  melted 
into  each  other  as  she  stood  or  moved  about,  with 
an  effect  like  music.  The  dark  eyes  showed  sen- 
sibility and  intelligence,  the  drooping  lids  giving 
them  a  dreamy  expression.  Her  coloring  would 
have  been  too  rich  had  not  much  of  the  old  shyness 
remained,  which  now  seemed  to  cover  her  with  a 
veil  of  maidenly  purity.  Her  manner  was  at  once 
frank  and  appealing,  and  unaffected  as  a  child's. 

If  Nina's  beauty  had  discovered  a  trace  of 
coarseness,  her  mother  would  have  been  more  dis- 
pleased than  gratified  at  the  change  in  her.  As  it 
was,  she  did  not  allow  gratification  to  overcome 
prudence.  On  her  return  the  young  girl  had  taken 
the  town  by  storm.  Tongues  wagged,  and  conniv- 
ing brains  began  to  plot.  Society  in  Garrison  had 
received  a  new  impetus,  and  all  the  dangers  of  young 
bellehood  began  to  assail  Nina.  Mrs.  Clarke 
yielded  to  the  current  graciously  but  discreetly. 
She  was  not  going  to  vulgarize  Nina  by  excesses  of 
any  kind.  She  might  suit  the  standards  of  Gar- 
rison as  she  was,  but  not  her  mother's.  Nina  must 


ROGER  HUNT.  151 

continue  her  studies.  A  few  months  before  she  had 
fully  intended  to  send  her  to  an  Eastern  college, 
but  now  that  she  had  blossomed  out  in  this  unex- 
pected fashion,  that  scheme  seemed  impracticable. 
She  looked  about,  therefore,  for  the  best  means  of 
private  instruction  within  reach,  and  Professor 
Hunt's  services  were  again  pleaded  for.  Regular 
masters  were  employed  for  the  languages  and 
music,  a  judicious  degree  of  social  indulgence  was 
to  be  permitted;  but  for  the  substantial  Nina 
was  put  unreservedly  into  her  former  instructor's 
hands.  Roger  had  not  yet  met  Nina  when  this 
arrangement  was  made.  Estella  had  seen  her,  and 
had  spoken  rapturously  of  the  change  in  her,  but 
the  subject  had  interested  him  little.  He  was  re- 
luctant to  resume  his  charge  in  this  direction,  but 
saw  no  way  to  avoid  it. 

"Take  her,"  her  mother  said,  "and  do  what  you 
like  with  her.  Put  her  back  into  mental  arith- 
metic if  you  want  to." 

"Mental  arithmetic,"  he  exclaimed.  Did  she 
not  know  mental  arithmetic  was  the  crowning  im- 
becility of  our  educational  system? 

"Is  it?  Nina  will  be  glad  to  hear  it.  I  will 
admit  I  have  a  preference  for  a  course  in  English. 
I  don't  know  whether  I  ought  to  tell  you,  but  she 
dreads  to  begin  with  you  again.  She  is  terribly 
afraid  of  you." 

Roger  was  not  wholly  surprised  at  this,  but  her 
words  made  less  impression  on  him  then  than  at  a 
later  period,  when  he  recalled  them. 


152  ROGEB  HUNT. 

"Teach  her  to  think,  if  you  can,"  the  mother 
went  on,  "to  have  a  mind  of  her  own.  If  she 
wasn't  my  daughter,  I  should  say  she  was  the 
most  tiresomely  docile  creature  on  earth.  I  would 
give  half  her  amiability  for  a  little  more  self-asser- 
tion. I  don't  mean  I  want  her  to  equal  you  in  that 
respect." 

"You  think  I  am  self-assertive?" 

She  laughed.  "You  are  as  meek  as  Moses  when 
he  slew  the  Egyptian "'  — 

"Didn't  the  Egyptian  deserve  his  fate?  " 

"Very  likely.  But  to  get  back  to  Nina.  As  I 
was  saying,  she  is  too  good-natured.  Any  other 
girl  would  have  had  her  head  turned  with  the  fuss 
made  over  her  at  Cape  May  last  summer,  but  she 
seemed  only  to  enjoy  it,  without  letting  it  spoil 
her." 

"I  don't  understand,"  said  Roger,  frowning  a 
little  as  he  always  did  when  Mrs.  Clarke  got  on  to 
her  society  tone.  "You  hoped  it  might  spoil  her 
a  little?" 

"How  dull  you  are!  I  only  want  Nina  to  have 
some  strength  of  character.  I  don't  know  who 
can  impart  it  better  than  you,"  in  a  tone  that  im- 
plied flattery  and  blame  at  the  same  time.  "You 
can  at  least  teach  her  not  always  to  agree  with 
people."  He  smiled  faintly. 

"If  a  girl  can't  learn  to  say  'No, '  "  she  went  on, 
"I  don't  know  what  will  become  of  her.  Nina  is 
just  the  girl  to  accept  the  first  man  that  offers  him- 
self. She  wouldn't  want  to  hurt  his  feelings." 


ROGER. HUNT.  153 

"You  wish  her  to  marry,  then?  " 

"I  should  think  what  I  said  indicated  the  op- 
posite," was  the  rather  sharp  reply.  "Marriage 
will  take  care  of  itself,  with  a  girl  like  Nina.  I 
have  always  been  opposed  to  early  marriages. 
You  have  an  artistic  temperament  and  are  roman- 
tic, so  I  suppose  you  approve  them?"  She  paused 
for  an  answer  but  he  was  silent.  "  I  did  not  marry 
until  I  was  twenty-seven.  If  I  had  accepted  my 
first  offer,  I  should  be  living  in  a  Connecticut  farm- 
house, and  doing  my  own  washing." 

"Isn't  a  woman  willing  to  do  her  own  washing 
if  she  loves  a  man?"' 

"She  courts  the  opportunity." 

"I  am  trying  to  guess,"  he  said,  after  a  minute's 
silence,  "whether  you  wanted  to  accept  him." 

"You  may  guess  as  much  as  you  like." 

"Is  it  your  experience  that  marriages  made  late 
in  life  are  any  happier?"  he  asked,  lingering  on  a 
subject  that  interested  him  above  all  others.  She 
laughed  and  shrugged  her  shoulders,  snugly  incased 
in  shining  black  satin.  She  understood  his  disposi- 
tion to  sentimentalize  in  some  directions,  but  flat- 
tered herself  she  knew  how  to  keep  it  in  check. 

"I  don't  know,  I  am  sure.  My  own  case  has 
been  pretty  bad,"  with  another  ironic  laugh,  "but 
I  shouldn't  like  to  generalize  on  that." 

"At  least  there  is  some  measure  of  innocence 
and  true  feeling  entering  into  young  marriages,  on 
one  side  or  the  other,"  he  said,  with  some  warmth. 

"Innocence  that  stands  for  ignorance." 


154  ROGER  HUNT. 

"I  sometimes  think  you  are  very  worldly- 
minded." 

"You  may  think  so  always,  so  far  as  I  am  con- 
cerned. I  certainly  mean  to  improve  all  my  oppor- 
tunities. That  is  the  reason  I  ask  you  once  more, 
'Will  you  take  Nina?'" 

"I  will  take  her,"  he  replied  briefly. 

"Thank  you;  and  when  can  she  begin?  To- 
morrow? " 

It  might  as  well  be  to  -  morrow  as  later,  he 
thought,  and  assented.  She  thanked  him  again. 

"You  are  very  kind."  The  subject  dropped 
there,  and  the  talk  flowed  to  other  channels. 
There  was  a  business  side  to  the  arrangement,  which 
was  deftly  managed  by  Mrs.  Clarke,  and  never  al- 
luded to  by  either  of  them.  At  proper  intervals 
Roger  received  a  check,  generous,  but  not  vulgarly 
large ;  of  a  proportion  suited  to  the  circumstances 
of  the  case,  and  gratifying  the  aesthetic  tastes  of 
both  donor  and  receiver. 


XI. 

THE  relation  between  the  two  girls  naturally 
suffered  a  change  after  Nina's  return.  The  differ- 
ence in  their  ages,  which  seemed  unimportant  be- 
fore, was  now  very  apparent.  The  two  had  stood 
side  by  side  in  their  studies,  where  Estella  was  not 
in  advance,  and  the  latter  did  not  easily  submit  to 
the  altered  aspect  of  affairs.  Hitherto  she  had  felt 
that  she  gave  quite  as  much  as  she  received  in  this 
acquaintance,  and  had  even  been  conscious  at  times 
of  a  patronizing  feeling  towards  her  friend ;  now 
it  looked  as  if  the  right  of  patronage  lay  on  the 
other  side. 

When  Nina  returned  home,  at  the  close  of  the 
period  of  summer  transmutation,  Estella  hastened 
to  meet  her,  but  was  quite  abashed  at  the  vision  of 
the  tall,  distinguished  looking  young  woman,  who 
came  forward  to  speak  to  her.  Not  that  she  found 
anything  to  complain  of  in  Nina's  manner,  which 
was  cordial  and  kind.  She  stooped  down  and  kissed 
her  friend,  who  somehow  in  this  new  juncture 
seemed  about  half  her  size;  then  bore  her  away 
to  her  own  room  to  talk  with  her  undisturbed,  and 
show  her  the  new  dresses,  jewels,  and  other  treas- 
ures accumulated  in  the  season's  absence,  and  at- 
testing the  dawn  of  a  new  era. 


156  ROGER  HUNT. 

It  was  perhaps  because  Nina  made  so  many  well- 
intentioned  efforts  to  please,  that  Estella,  sensitive 
and  observant,  resented  them.  Conflicting  feelings 
struggled  within  her,  admiration,  jealous  pain,  and 
growing  surprise.  In  spite  of  her  friendliness,  Es- 
tella knew  that  Nina  also  felt  the  changed  situation 
between  them.  She  was  both  hurt  and  puzzled, 
and  showed  a  shyness  quite  new  to  her.  She 
looked  as  uncomfortable  as  she  felt,  and  was  con- 
scious of  making  stupid  replies,  listening  to  her 
companion's  talk  with  an  indifference  that  looked 
like  envy.  Mrs.  Clarke  came  into  the  room  while 
the  two  were  together. 

"You  find  Nina  changed?  "  she  said  to  Estella, 
noting  the  young  girl's  mystified  look. 

"I  think  she  is  very  beautiful,"  Estella  replied, 
in  a  tone  at  once  devout  and  mournful.  Mrs. 
Clarke  gave  an  easy  laugh,  and  Nina,  who  had  lost 
none  of  her  former  sensitiveness,  blushed. 

"Never  mind,  my  dear,"  her  mother  said,  with 
well-meant  kindness.  "Any  girl  of  reasonable 
size  has  a  great  advantage  over  a  big  creature  like 
Nina.  She  can  go  quietly  along  with  her  studies, 
and  do  everything  more  thoroughly.  Nobody  ex- 
pects her  to  act  the  grown  woman  before  she  is 
nineteen." 

"Oh,  for  that  matter,  I  don't  know  that  any  one 
has  ever  expected  anything  from  me,"  Estella  re- 
plied, with  a  little  petulance.  Mrs.  Clarke's  words 
grated  on  her,  she  hardly  knew  why ;  but  that  lady 
was  apt  to  praise  people  in  a  way  that  brought  out 
all  their  defects. 


ROGER  HUNT.  157 

"I  am  sure  Estella  has  always  had  the  advan- 
tage of  me,"  said  Nina.  "She  is  far  ahead  of  me 
in  her  studies." 

"Yes,  Nina  thinks  you  are  quite  a  prodigy,"  the 
mother  said,  in  continued  good  will;  but  Estella 
was  not  in  a  mood  to  be  grateful  for  the  compensa- 
tion that  might  lie  in  a  taste  for  mathematics  and 
Latin  roots.  She  longed  for  some  more  material 
sign  of  power.  She  felt  sore  and  humiliated,  the 
more  so  that  she  knew  Nina  had  done  nothing  to 
arouse  such  feelings;  she  could  find  no  way  to 
restore  self-respect  except  by  praising  Nina  in  the 
highest  terms. 

"She  is  so  beautiful,  mamma,"  she  said,  seated 
on  the  edge  of  her  mother's  bed, — Eleanor  kept 
her  bed  a  good  deal  in  these  days ;  "  I  never  dreamed 
any  one  could  be  so  beautiful."  She  ended  with 
a  sigh  impossible  to  repress,  and  her  mother  smiled. 

"You  must  bring  her  in  to  see  me." 

Estella  shook  her  head,  not  in  denial  of  this  re- 
quest, but  in  foreboding  of  matters  that  lay  deeper. 

"Nina  can't  care  for  Such  an  insignificant  little 
thing  as  I  am,  any  more."  Her  mother  looked  at 
her  attentively. 

"How  long  has  Estella  Hunt  regarded  herself 
as  insignificant?  "  she  asked. 

The  girl  flushed  and  looked  convicted.  She  was 
indeed  too  much  her  father's  child  to  make  self -de- 
preciation natural. 

"You  must  remember  that  Nina  is  two  years 
older  than  you." 


158  ROGER  HUNT. 

"She  did  not  seem  to  think  she  was  so  much 
older,  last  spring."  To  herself  Estella  added  that 
she  was  ten  times  older  than  Nina  in  some  things. 

"You  both  had  to  find  it  out  some  time. 
Wasn't  Nina  pleasant  this  morning?  " 

"  Oh  yes ;  she  is  n't  a  bit  spoiled.  She  tried  her 
best  to  make  me  feel  as  if  I  were  eighteen  too," 
laughing  dismally. 

"Don't  wish  away  your  youth,  my  child.  It 
will  pass  quickly  enough.  Nina  is  a  good  girl,  I 
think." 

"Of  course  she  is  good.  That  is  what  I  don't 
think  is  fair.  She  ought  to  be  satisfied  with  being 
beautiful.  You  don't  think  I.'m  jealous,  do  you, 
mamma?  "  bending  anxiously  over  the  bed. 

"I  think  you  are  too  sensible  to  let  yourself  be 
jealous." 

"Thank  you,  mamma.  I  am  so  glad  you  are 
willing  to  give  me  a  little  time.  I  don't  mean  to 
go  on  this  way  much  longer;  you  '11  see  how  beau- 
tifully I  '11  bring  myself  round.  I  'm  not  jealous," 
she  added,  more  seriously?  "I  should  like  Nina 
to  have  all  she  wants.  I  hope  she  will  be  different 
from  me;  she  deserves  to.  I  should  be  ashamed 
to  feel  in  any  other  way.  Only,"  lapsing  suddenly 
from  this  height,  "I  shall  be  lonesome,"  and  she 
sighed  again. 

"Shall  you,  dear?  I  hope  not,"  her  mother  re- 
plied, with  an  anxiety  that  seemed  rather  out  of 
proportion.  Her  eyes  rested  on  the  young  face 
near  her,  so  sensitive  and  imperious,  with  a  look  of 


ROGER  HUNT.  159 

wistful  concern  and  question  Estella  had  noticed 
before.  She  forbore  to  tell  her  mother  many  of 
her  small  troubles,  because  of  the  undue  impor- 
tance the  latter  attached  to  them;  she  was  apt  to 
take  them  harder  than  the  girl  herself  did. 

"What  a  silly  thing  I  am!  "  Estella  exclaimed, 
springing  to  her  feet.  "I  shall  not  be  lonesome 
either.  What  do  I  want  of  Nina  Clarke  or  any 
one  else,  so  long  as  I  have  you,  you  dear  old  dar- 
ling mamma? "  bending  over  and  kissing  her. 
"Now  I  'm  going  into  the  kitchen  and  make  you 
the  loveliest  bowl  of  celery  soup  —  I  mean  a  bowl 
of  loveliest  celery  soup, "  with  a  laugh.  "Jane  will 
be  cross,  but  I  don't  care.  She  's  getting  to  be  a 
perfect  tyrant.  Even  papa  is  afraid  of  her." 

When  Estella  returned  from  this  commission, 
she  found  her  father  in  the  room.  He  had  just 
returned  from  the  morning  visit  to  his  neighbor 
which  had  bound  him  to  another  term  of  service 
as  Nina's  instructor.  The  impulse  to  confide  his 
feelings  to  Eleanor  was  very  rare,  but  the  sense  of 
injury  was  too  strong  to  be  kept  to  himself.  Es- 
tella placed  the  tray  containing  her  mother's  light 
repast  on  the  stand  by  the  bed,  then  turned  and 
listened  a  moment  to  what  her  father  was  saying. 

"Then  Nina  and  I  are  to  study  together  again," 
she  broke  in,  in  a  pleased  tone.  "I  am  so  glad." 

"Indeed,  you  are  not  to  study  together,"  her 
father  replied.  Both  mother  and  daughter  looked 
their  surprise  at  this. 

"Isn't    Nina    willing    to    study  with   me   any 


160  ROGER  HUNT. 

more?"  Estella  cried,  her  sensitive  pride  quickly 
springing  into  flame  again. 

"It  is  I  who  am  not  willing,"  her  father  said. 
"You  have  got  to  work."  These  words  were 
spoken  with  an  emphasis  that  implied  a  distinction 
the  girl  at  once  understood,  and  which  was  rather 
flattering;  still  she  was  disappointed. 

"What  is  Nina  going  to  do?  "  she  asked,  with  a 
pout. 

"Nina  is  going  in  for  the  usual  lady -like  accom- 
plishments." 

"Why  can't  I  go  in  for  the  accomplishments 
too?" 

"You  will  learn  the  multiplication -table  first." 

Estella  knew  what  that  meant.  Nina  was  par- 
ticularly dull  at  figures.  She  began  to  feel  rather 
sorry  for  her  friend. 

"Can  you  spare  the  time  for  separate  lessons?" 
Eleanor  asked,  looking  at  him  sympathetically. 
She  knew  he  was  unusually  busy  just  now,  finish- 
ing a  new  book.  Estella,  seeing  her  mother  was 
not  yet  ready  for  lunch,  took  the  tray  back  into 
the  kitchen. 

"Of  course  I  cannot  spare  the  time." 

"Then  why  not  explain  to  Mrs.  Clarke?  She 
ought  to  excuse  you  when  she  knows  how  busy  you 
are." 

"I  consented  to  take  the  girl  because  we  need 
the  money,"  was  the  blunt  reply.  This  was  not 
strictly  true,  but  it  served  as  an  excuse  to  work  off 
his  irritation.  He  had  consented  to  receive  Nina 


ROGER  HUNT.  161 

because  he  did  not  wish  to  displease  her  mother. 
Eleanor  looked  at  him  in  surprise. 

"  I  told  you  some  time  ago  I  had  met  with  some 
losses,  and  you  must  know  our  way  of  living  is  ex- 
pensive." The  words  sounded  worse  than  he  meant 
they  should,  and  Eleanor,  who  had  learned  to  hold 
her  feelings  in  check,  knew  they  were  inspired 
more  by  the  moment's  irritation  than  a  feeling  of 
special  complaint  against  any  one ;  yet  they  could 
not  fail  to  make  her  uneasy.  She  remembered 
about  the  losses  Roger  spoke  of,  but  had  not  sup- 
posed the  result  was  serious. 

"If  we  must  economize,  I  am  sure  we  can  find 
better  ways  than  that,"  she  said.  "We  can  dis- 
charge the  doctor.  I  have  wanted  to  speak  to 
you  about  it  before.  There  is  no  need  of  his  com- 
ing." 

"Who  said  anything  about  the  doctor?"  Roger 
asked,  with  quick  offense.  "Do  you  think  I  com- 
plain of  such  things  ?  " 

"No,  dear,  no.  It  is  only  because  there  is  no 
need  of  his  coming.  He  cannot  help  me.  And  I 
cannot  bear  to  be  a  useless  expense  to  you." 

"We  will  drop  the  subject,  if  you  please,"  he 
said  in  a  displeased  tone. 

"I  did  not  mean  to  hurt  you,  Roger.  Don't  be 
so  harsh  and  suspicious  of  me  "  — 

"It  is  you  who  are  suspicious  of  me.  You 
might  think  of  me  as  a  man  of  honor,  if  you  no 
longer  care  for  me." 

"If  I  did  not  cars  for  you,  Roger,  could  you 


162  ROGER  HUNT. 

have  the  power  to  hurt  me  so?  I  only  said  what 
was  true,"  —  cause  enough  for  speaking,  usually, 
in  his  mind,  —  "the  doctor  can't  help  me.  No- 
body can  help  me  "  -  her  voice  breaking.  Roger 
remained  silent,  while .  her  breath  came  in  quick 
labored  gasps,  prelude  to  one  of  those  hysterical 
breakdowns  he  so  disliked. 

"Nobody  can  help  me,"  she  burst  out  again, 
letting  the  full  tide  of  feeling  sweep  over  her. 
"Not  even  God,  else  he  would  let  me  die.  I  don't 
wonder  you  grow  impatient,  Roger." 

This  was  another  of  those  outbreaks  of  impetu- 
ous speech  she  had  learned  to  control  during  late 
years,  not  only  unintended,  but  belying  her  real 
wish  and  thought,  and  ending  in  quick  remorse 
almost  before  the  words  died  on  her  lips ;  but  the 
one  who  heard  them  stored  them  up  in  an  embit- 
tered memory,  where  they  served  to  harden  convic- 
tion and  strengthen  pitiless  resolve  anew.  Roger 
turned  white  with  anger. 

"  If  you  think  me  such  a  coarse  brute  as  that,  I 
had  better  leave  you,"  he  said;  but  that  was  now 
impossible.  She  had  reached  the  climax  of  the 
nervous  spasm  in  which  such  scenes  ended,  and 
he  was  obliged  to  go  to  her  assistance.  The  attack 
was  short  but  violent,  and  she  lay  spent  and  white 
on  her  pillow,  clinging  still  to  Roger's  hand. 

"Forgive  me,  dear,"  she  whispered.  "I  did  not 
mean  to  vex  you."  He  did  not  answer,  his  face 
keeping  still  its  look  of  stern  self -in  jury. 

She  looked  at  him  yearningly. 


ROGEE  HUNT.  163 

"It  is  hard  for  you  to  forgive,  isn't  it,  Roger?  " 

"We  have  had  enough  of  painful  discussion, 
Eleanor.  Shall  I  give  you  a  drink  ?"  She  waved 
away  the  glass  he  took  from  the  stand  with  a  faint 
motion  of  her  head. 

"You  are  hard,  Roger,  you  are  hard." 

"I  am  trying  to  be  just." 

"Oh,  I  know  what  you  call  it,  but  I  could  not 
treat  you  so,  Roger.  If  I  were  the  strong  one,  I 
should  not  be  so  careful  to  keep  my  strength;  I 
should  not  care  whether  I  was  consistent  or  not. 
And  if  you  were  the  weak  one,  and  needing  any- 
thing from  me,  a  loving  word  or  look,  you  should 
have  it,  whether  I  felt  it  or  not,  if  I  had  to  peril 
my  soul  for  it."  She  was  growing  excited  again. 

"I  do  not  understand  you."  This  was  true. 
"You  are  agitating  yourself  without  cause.  I  am 
sorry  I  do  not  please  you." 

"Was  he  sorry?"  she  asked  herself.  "Was  he 
ever  really  sorry  for  anything."  For  it  had  long 
seemed  to  Eleanor,  in  spite  of  her  strong  desire  to 
be  just,  that  Roger  was  never  so  much  grieved  over 
any  loss  or  disappointment,  however  real,  as  newly 
confirmed  in  a  proud  belief  in  himself.  Genuine 
grief  contains  the  element  of  a  deeper  trust  and 
sense  of  dependence  than  any  he  had  manifested 
even  when  he  loved  her  most. 

The  nurse  entering  the  room  soon  after,  Roger 
left  it.  The  sick  woman  turned  her  head  on  the 
pillow  and  closed  her  eyes,  and  when  Estella  again 
entered  with  the  little  tray,  she  signed  to  her  that 


164  ROGER  HUNT, 

her  mother  was  asleep,  and  the  girl  again  quietly 
left  the  room. 

The  money  losses  Roger  spoke  of  were  the  result 
of  a  business  venture  quite  out  of  keeping  with  his 
usual  habits,  and  not  likely  to  be  repeated. 

The  real  estate  speculation,  which  had  built  up 
the  fortunes  of  Garrison,  developed  into  a  positive 
mania  now  and  then;  and  it  was  during  one  of 
these  periods  of  commerical  greed  and  excitement 
that  Roger  had  been  bitten,  but  with  medicinal 
effect,  since  the  result  had  shamed  even  more  than 
it  angered  him.  That  did  not,  however,  prevent 
him  from  holding  in  stronger  dislike  than  before 
his  neighbor,  Thomas  Clarke,  who  had  advised 
him  against  the  venture. 

Roger  had  sought  advice  from  this  quarter  with 
great  reluctance,  not  daring  to  do  without  it;  yet 
with  the  feeling  that  for  a  man  like  himself  merely 
to  ask  counsel  from  another,  of  the  mental  calibre 
of  Thomas  Clarke,  ought  to  procure  the  kind  he 
wanted.  When  the  advice  proved  of  a  different 
order,  he  considered  himself  justified  in  rejecting  it, 
both  for  the  manner  in  which  it  had  been  given, 
and  the  motive  he  chose  to  fancy  might  lay  be- 
neath. 

The  Eagle  Company,  of  which  Thomas  Clarke 
was  president,  was  the  oldest  and  wealthiest  real 
estate  concern  in  Garrison,  with  a  fame  and  credit 
that  extended  far  beyond.  From  time  to  time  new 
syndicates  arose,  waned  or  prospered,  but  the 
Eagle  continued  to  lead.  The  latest  of  these  new 


ROGER  HUNT.  165 

enterprises  was  known  as  the  Swampscott,  which 
had  purchased  a  large  tract  of  lowlands  adjacent 
to  the  town  in  another  direction  from  which  the 
Eagle's  investments  lay;  one  which  the  Eagle  had 
overlooked,  the  leaders  of  the  rival  company  said, 
which  it  had  looked  at  and  passed  by,  said  the 
friends  of  the  older  firm.  Yet  Swampscott  was 
not  without  its  possibilities;  even  some  of  the  di- 
rectors of  the  Eagle  had  been  heard  to  admit  that. 
Once  let  the  tide  of  suburban  emigration  set  that 
way,  and  stock  in  Sunrise,  the  name  of  the  little 
village  the  Eagle  had  founded,  would  sensibly  de- 
preciate. Popular  opinion  wavered  back  and  forth 
between  the  rising  promise  of  the  new  and  the  es- 
tablished merits  of  the  old;  and  commercially  the 
town  was  divided  into  two  factions.  Older  and 
more  cautious  heads  argued  that  if  Swampscott 
were  really  worth  while,  the  Eagle  would  have  got 
hold  of  it  before  this,  while  younger  speculators 
were  confident  in  the  belief  that  the  Eagle  could  n't 
get  hold  of  it.  Some  of  them  thought  it  time  that 
rapacious  bird  was  taught  to  keep  'its  claws  off 
from  something.  Roger  Hunt  was  among  these. 

There  was  something  intolerable  to  him  in  the 
social  autocracy  of  a  man  like  Thomas  Clarke, 
who  boasted  he  had  not  received  even  a  common- 
school  education,  yet  who  patronized  his  betters, 
and  recognized  no  merit  or  distinction  in  another 
he  did  not  possess  himself.  Though  he  would  not 
labor  directly  to  bring  it  about,  the  downfall  of 
such  a  man,  he  could  not  but  feel,  would  be  an 


160  ROGER  HUNT. 

act  of  wholesome  moral  discipline,  and  a  benefit  to 
the  entire  community. 

The  excitement  grew,  and  party  feeling  ran 
higher  each  day.  Meantime  the  Eagle  kept  up  its 
usual  habits,  here  as  in  its  native  wilds,  —  looked 
at  the  sun  without  winking,  and  fixed  an  atten- 
tive eye  on  its  unconscious  prey  below.  Thomas 
Clarke  went  about  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets 
and  a  face  about  as  communicative  as  the  iron 
door  of  his  combination  safe.  Roger's  irritation 
against  him  increased  with  the  compulsion  he  felt 
himself  under  to  seek  his  help ;  and  the  two  men 
greeted  each  other  with  a  strained  politeness,  the 
morning  the  former  called  at  the  office  of  the  Eagle. 
The  president  frowned  when  he  learned  his  visitor's 
errand,  then  masked  his  face  with  an  inscrutable 
expression,  pulling  at  his  gray  mustache  and  twirl- 
ing slowly  in  his  revolving  chair. 

"What  do  you  ask  me  about  Swampscott  for?" 
he  began,  after  a  pause,  when  Roger  had  finished. 
"The  Eagle  doesn't  own  so  much  as  a  mayweed 
out  there.  And  she  's  got  consid'able  property  of 
her  own  she  'd  like  to  sell." 

"It  is  Swampscott  property  I  came  to  inquire 
about,"  said  Roger  with  a  touch  of  hauteur,  re- 
jecting this  hinted  offer  in  another  direction,  as  he 
chose  to  consider  it,  and  made,  he  thought,  in  the 
worst  possible  taste. 

"Confound  the  fellow!  What  does  he  mean 
by  coming  round  here  with  his  infernal  airs?"  the 
other  exclaimed  mentally. 


ROGER  HUNT.  167 

"I  thought  I  might  get  your  personal  opinion, 
which,  in  a  matter  of  this  kind,"  —Roger  spoke 
with  intentional  slowness  here,  —  "would  have  its 
value.  But  if  it 's  unprofessional  for  you  to  speak 
on  the  subject " 

"Oh,  unprofessional  be  hanged!  The  Eagle," 
and  the  speaker  inflated  his  broad  chest  with  a 
deep  breath,  "says  what  she  thinks  of  a  thing  of 
that  kind  when  she  doesn't  invest." 

"She  could  invest  then,  if  she  wanted  to?" 

Thomas  Clarke  looked  at  his  visitor  cunningly. 

"Well,  she  thinks  she  could;  she  may  be  mis- 
taken, though." 

Roger  found  himself  devoutly  hoping  she  might 
prove  so.  "The  wisest  are  mistaken  sometimes, 
of  course,"  he  said  aloud,  to  fill  in  the  pause. 

"No  doubt.  The  Eagle  's  be'n  here  goin'  on 
twenty  years  now,  and  she  ain't  made  no  mistakes 
yet ;  but  I  suppose  some  folks  'd  say  that  only  makes 
the  time  shorter  when  she  will." 

"  Then  I  understand  you  advise  me  not  to  invest 
in  Swampscott?"  Roger  asked,  bringing  the  dis- 
cussion back  to  its  definite  object. 

"I  don't  say  I  don't  advise  you  to  invest." 

"You  don't  choose  to  invest  yourself?" 

"Oh,  me,"  waving  such  comparisons  aside  loftily. 
"I  've  bit  off  all  I  can  chew,  already."  Roger  was 
disgusted. 

"See  here,"  the  other  continued  more  seriously, 
and  swinging  himself  round  to  face  his  visitor 
squarely,  "suppose  I  should  tell  you  I  don't  think 


168  ROGER  HUNT. 

Swampscott  's  worth  twenty -five  on  the  dollar,  and 
it  was  to  turn  out  dif 'rent ;  how  'd  you  feel  towards 
me?  I  suppose  somebody '11  make  something  out 
of  it." 

"Then  there  is  a  chance  in  it?" 

"There  's  a  chance  in  the  desert  of  Sahary  if  you 
know  how  to  operate  it.  How  much  do  you  know 
about  real  estate  any  way?  " 

"Nothing,  "Roger  replied,  in  a  tone  that  thanked 
heaven  for  it.  "I  happen  to  have  a  few  thousand 
to  invest,  that 's  all;  and  I  thought  if  I  could  put 
the  money  safely  away  somewhere,  and  let  it  lie 
idle  for  a  time"  — 

"You  'd  wake  up  some  morning  and  find  it  had 
doubled  itself  three  or  four  times  over.  Perhaps 
you  will." 

"I  see  that  I  am  detaining  you,"  Roger  said 
rising  from  his  chair. 

"I  'm  sorry  if  I  've  offended  you,"  the  other  re- 
plied, rising  also,  "but  don't  you  see  I  'm  not  the 
man  you  want  to  ask  about  a  thing  of  this  kind. 
I  'm  an  interested  party."  A  quick  flash  of  sus- 
picion darted  across  Roger's  face.  He  was  the 
most  literal  man.  living  in  some  things,  despite 
those  higher  qualities  of  imagination  his  friends 
praised  so  highly. 

"Come  now,"  the  other  went  on,  "I  guess  you'd 
made  up  your  mind  what  you  was  goin'  to  do  be- 
fore you  consulted  me.  Folks  gen 'rally  have,  I 
notice.  You  think  it 's  only  my  candid  opinion 
you  want." 


ROGER  HUNT.  169 

"Certainly,  that  is  all  I  want." 

"Well,  it  wouldn't  sound  candid  if  I  was  to 
give  it;  it  'd  sound  a  mighty  sight  worse." 

Roger's  vexation  increased,  and  so  did  his  sus- 
picion. 

"Is  it  true,"  he  asked  with  an  unpleasant  sug- 
gestion in  look  and  tone,  "that  if  Swampscott  goes 
up,  Sunrise  goes  down?" 

A  deep  flush  colored  the  other  man's  face,  and 
he  set  his  heavy  jawa  together  firmly.  He  was 
touched  in  a  sensitive  spot. 

"You  '11  find  plenty  of  damned  fools  who  '11  tell 
you  so,"  he  said  angrily. 

It  was  now  Roger's  turn  to  take  offense. 

"I  don't  understand,"  he  replied  cuttingly. 
"They  are  fools  for  thinking  so,  or  only  damned 
because  they  do?" 

The  other  gave  vent  to  a  snort?  of  impatient 
laughter,  and  Roger  feeling  that  it  was  hopeless  to 
try  to  get  anything  more  from  this  quarter,  and 
indignant  with  himself  for  coming  at  all,  made  his 
escape  into  the  street. 

The  president  of  the  Eagle  projected  a  few  un- 
spoken anathemas  after  his  departing  visitor,  and 
returned  to  his  desk  with  a  vexed  and  troubled 
countenance.  He  foresaw  Roger's  loss  as  distinctly 
as  next  morning's  breakfast,  and  the  knowledge 
that  it  would  be  largely  deserved  did  not  lessen  his 
own  feeling  of  accountability.  He  reflected  that 
his  wife  would  be  even  more  disturbed  than  he  was 
if  she  knew  of  this  visit,  and  resolved  not  to  tell 


170  ROGER  HUNT. 

her ;  which  was  probably  the  reason  she  learned  all 
about  it  within  a  few  days. 

"You  should  have  refused  to  give  your  opinion 
at  all,"  she  said,  in  an  annoyed  tone,  after  the  first 
questions  and  exclamations  were  over.  They  were 
taking  an  evening  drive,  returning  from  the  stock 
farm. 

"I  didn't  give  him  my  opinion;  that  is,  not 
d'reckly." 

"What  did  you  tell  him?"  she  asked  anx- 
iously. 

"Oh,  I  kind  o'  parried  him,"  he  replied,  leaning 
forward  to  brush  a  fly  from  the  horse's  flank. 

"Parried  him!  Parry  a  man  like  Professor 
Hunt— you!" 

She  did  not  mean  to  be  disrespectful,  but  the 
image  her  husband's  words  called  up  was  one  the 
most  liberal  fancy  failed  to  entertain.  "You  had 
better  have  spoken  outright,  and  said  what  you 
thought." 

"Anybody  but  a  darned  literary  crank  'd  'a 
known  what  I  thought,"  was  the  testy  reply. 
"Darned"  was  the  severest  expletive  Mr.  Clarke 
indulged  in  before  his  wife,  who  suffered  this  and 
other  mild  lapses  without  rebuke. 

"You  can't  teach  a  man  like  Hunt  anything. 
What  hand  the  Lord  didn't  have  in  making  this 
universe  he  did,  and  he  could  'a  took  the  whole 
job  if  he  'd  been  asked.  He  did  n't  mean  to  take 
my  advice  anyway.  That 's  the  reason  he  asked 
it." 


ROGER  HUNT.  171 

"You  have  always  disliked  him." 

"Well,  that  ain't  seemed  to  hinder  my  letting 
you  run  after  him  a  good  deal,"  he  replied  with  a 
mixture  of  jocoseness  and  discontent. 

"Don't  use  such  expressions.  I  don't  see  why 
he  should  go  to  you  on  such  a  matter." 

"Who  else  should  he  go  to,  I  'd  like  to  know," 
his  professional  pride  aflame.  "If  there  's  anybody 
in  Garrison  knows  more  about  real  estate  than 
Tom  Clarke  does,  I  'd  like  to  see  him." 

"I  don't  mean  that;  I  mean  it  was  in  such  poor 
taste.  I  can't  bear  mixing  up  social  and  business 
relations  in  that  way." 

"There  ain't  much  mix,  's  far  's  I  'm  concerned. 
He  won't  be  wanting  any  more  advice  from  me,  for 
a  spell.  But  I  hate  to  see  a  man  lose  good  money, 
even  Hunt." 

"Dear  me!  Will  he  lose  his  money?"  Mrs. 
Clarke  asked  in  genuine  concern.  "What  makes 
you  so  sure  he  will  lose?" 

"  What  makes  me  sure  the  Mississip'  will  go  on 
running  towards  the  Gulf  next  week,  same  as  she  's 
doin'  now?  The  trouble  with  them  Swampscott 
fellows  is  they  hain't  got  the  capital.  You  've 
got  to  have  capital  to  operate  with,  in  the  real 
estate  business." 

Mrs.  Clarke  sighed  and  said  she  supposed  so. 
She  had  but  a  vague  idea  of  what  was  meant  by 
this  "operating"  power  of  capital,  and  was  faintly 
suspicious  at  times  of  things  which,  had  she  time 
to  look  into  them  deeper,  she  might  have  disap- 


172  ROGER  HUNT. 

proved  of.  But  she  never  had  time  to  look  into 
them.  As  has  been  said,  she  and  her  husband  gave 
each  other  a  wide  freedom,  she  resigning  to  him 
the  entire  management  of  those  money  concerns 
she  knew  nothing  of,  yet  was  so  dependent  on ;  he 
yielding  to  her  in  all  matters  of  a  social  and  do- 
mestic nature.  He  humored  her  even  where  he 
did  not  understand  her,  as  in  her  taste  for  the  so- 
ciety of  a  man  like  Hunt;  regarding  it  with  much 
the  same  good-natured  tolerance  he  did  her  fancy 
for  Persian  rugs  and  a  six  o'clock  dinner  served  in 
courses.  He  himself  preferred  old-fashioned  Brus- 
sels of  the  biggest  and  gayest  pattern,  and  still 
cherished  a  primitive  relish  for  a  dinner  of  boiled 
vegetables;  but  he  looked  up  to  her  as  a  superior 
being  on  some  points,  respecting  without  envying 
those  mental  accomplishments  which  added  new 
lustre  and  power  to  the  wife  of  a  man  in  his  po- 
sition, but  were  not  necessary  in  the  first  person. 
At  the  same  time  he  loved  her  with  that  romantic 
fondness  which  the  American  husband,  even  of  his 
busy  and  self-engrossed  type,  regards  the  choice 
of  his  early  years. 


XII. 

ESTELLA  HUNT  had  inherited  much  of  her  fa- 
ther's mental  courage,  though  as  she  grew  older 
she  sometimes  failed  to  sympathize  with  the  ideas 
fostering  it  in  him.  This  difference  showed  itself 
in  one  way,  at  about  this  time,  in  a  wish  of  hers, 
long  cherished  before  spoken,  to  attend  church. 
She  was  growing  rather  sensitive  over  the  many 
points  of  difference  between  themselves,  as  a  fam- 
ily, and  their  neighbors.  The  sense  of  isolation 
was  increasing,  which  even  the  knowledge  of  the 
natural,  and  to  a  degree  flattering,  causes  leading 
to  it,  such  as  her  mother's  long  illness,  and  her  fa- 
ther's studious  habits,  could  not  entirely  do  away 
with.  These  were  not  sufficient  in  the  young 
girl's  mind  for  imposing  other  obstacles  to  natu- 
ral intercourse  with  the  world  about  them.  This 
exclusiveness,  she  began  to  see,  brought  many 
disadvantages,  which  she  was  unwilling  to  submit 
to  without  a  struggle.  She  had  been  brought  up 
almost  as  rigidly  as  a  girl  in  a  convent,  and  her 
desire  to  go  to  church  was  but  part  of  her  keen 
young  interest  in  life  and  her  kind. 

The  subject  of  religion  was  not  often  discussed 
in  the  household;  but  Estella  knew  her  father 
agreed  as  little  in  the  general  judgment  here  as 


174  ROGER  HUNT. 

elsewhere.  Her  mother's  views  she  was  unable  to 
determine,  but  the  long  years  of  uncomplaining 
suffering  she  had  witnessed,  and  her  goodness,  led 
her  to  think  she  must  be  very  religious.  One  day 
at  Mrs.  Clarke's  she  overheard  some  one  speak  of 
her  father  as  an  "infidel,"  but  Mrs.  Clarke  had 
corrected  this  statement,  and  declared  he  was  only 
an  "agnostic."  Estella  did  not  know  the  differ- 
ence, and  shortly  after,  one  morning  when  she  and 
her  father  were  in  her  mother's  room,  she  asked 
him  to  explain  it.  "Infidel  "he  told  her  was  a 
purely  relative  term:  "A  Christian  is  infidel  to 
the  Mohammedan  form  of  faith  as  the  Moham- 
medan is  to  the  Christian.  An  'agnostic  '  is  one 
who  simply  refuses  to  dogmatize  about  things  he 
does  not  understand.  'Agnosticism'  means  'with- 
out knowledge. ' ' 

"Then  are  you  an  agnostic,  papa?"  She  gath- 
ered as  much  from  the  unprejudiced  definition  he 
had  given  her. 

"Not  at  all."  Roger's  basis  of  opinion  in  these 
matters  would  have  been  difficult  to  define,  even  to 
an  adult  understanding;  being  a  compound  of  He- 
gelian mysticism  and  modern  science,  with  a  liberal 
dash  of  Fichte's  doctrine  of  the  ego  thrown  in. 

"Some  of  the  best  minds  are  agnostic  and  infi- 
del, Estella,"  her  mother  said. 

"That  is  what  Mrs.  Clarke  said;  then  I  don't 
see  why  they  should  be  used  as  terms  of  reproach." 

"They  are  not  by  intelligent  people,"  said  her 
father. 


ROGER  HUNT.  175 

"Don't  you  call  Rector  James  intelligent?  " 

"What  do  you  know  of  Rector  James's  views  on 
these  subjects?" 

"I  heard  him  preach,  last  Sunday.  His  subject 
was  'Modern  Infidelity.''  Roger  gave  a  short 
contemptuous  laugh. 

"I  let  her  go,"  said  Eleanor,  looking  at  him  anx- 
iously. "She  wanted  to  go.  If  I  had  known  "  — 

"Pooh  !  let  her  go."  It  would  be  strange,  he 
thought,  if  he  could  not  counteract  the  effect  of  a 
Rector  James's  teachings. 

"Oh,  papa!     May  I  go  to  church,  really?  " 

This  was  putting  the  subject  in  a  more  general 
way  he  was  not  prepared  for,  and  he  looked  at  her 
with  a  slight  frown. 

"What  do  you  want  to  go  to  church  for?  " 

"Because  other  people  do." 

"That  is  a  very  poor  reason.  Do  you  think 
association  with  a  man  like  Mr.  Abbot  would  be 
so  improving?  "  Mr.  Abbot  was  a  defaulting 
bookkeeper  in  a  large  establishment  in  town,  who 
had  narrowly  escaped  the  penitentiary ;  he  was  also 
a  prominent  member  of  Rector  James's  flock. 

"I  don't  see  what  that  has  to  do  with  it,"  Es- 
tella  replied.  She  seemed  disappointed,  and  looked 
appealingly  at  her  mother. 

"I  think  mamma  would  be  willing  I  should  go," 
she  said  hesitatingly. 

"No  doubt,"  and  Roger  laughed  harshly.  "She 
certainly  likes  doing  as  other  people  do,"  in  a 
significant  tone  Eleanor  alone  could  understand. 


176  ROGEE  HUNT. 

"Once  she  tried    to  do  something  different,  but 
she  's  been  repenting  of  it  ever  since." 

These  words  of  dire  and  cruel  import  would  not 
have  been  spoken,  perhaps,  had  not  Roger  still  been 
under  the  influence  of  his  newly-aroused  resent- 
ment against  Eleanor,  besides  feeling  fresh  cause 
of  vexation  with  her  this  morning,  over  some  house- 
hold matter  gone  wrong,  —  an  insignificant  affair, 
save  that  it  had  caused  him  considerable  personal 
annoyance. 

Eleanor,  who  was  pale  before,  turned  whiter 
still,  and  clasping  the  arm  of  her  chair,  half  rose  to 
her  feet. 

"Roger!"  she  exclaimed  imploringly.  It  was 
absurd,  she  knew,  but  she  was  wildly  afraid  at 
such  times,  when  such  words  of  dark  and  threaten- 
ing allusion  fell  from  him,  that  he  would  expose 
her  to  their  child.  The  dread  of  Estella's  discov- 
ery of  that  deed  of  her  past  hung  over  her  like 
Damocles'  sword.  Should  this  frightful  know- 
ledge ever  reach  her,  and  she  read  her  judgment  in 
her  daughter's  face,  Eleanor  felt  its  work  would 
be  mercifully  swift  and  instantaneous,  like  the 
lightning's  stroke.  Her  own  would  be  the  easier 
part;  she  should  die.  But  Estella  must  live. 
Not  a  day  passed  in  which  she  did  not  pray  the 
cruel  truth  might  never  reach  her.  Surely  she  had 
a  right  to  pray  for  that,  not  for  the  lessening  of  her 
own  punishment,  simply  that  the  innocent  might  be 
spared.  Estella  looked  from  one  to  the  other  with 
a  puzzled  face,  though  such  scenes  were  not  wholly 


ROGER  HUNT.  177 

new  to  her.  It  was  impossible  she  should  under- 
stand her  father's  words,  but  she  felt  pained  and  a 
little  indignant  on  her  mother's  behalf. 

"I  think  other  people  had  better  tjy  to  be  like 
mamma,"  she  said.  "I  don't  know  what  she  can 
have  to  repent  of,  unless  it 's  her  goodness,  and  if 
it 's  that  she  '11  be  kept  busy,"  going  towards  her 
and  bending  over  her,  fondly  drawing  the  little 
shawl  she  wore  closer  about  her  shoulders. 

"If  you  think  people  need  not  repent,  papa," 
turning  towards  him  with  a  little  pertness,  and 
recalling  other  things  she  had  heard  him  say  on  this 
point,  "then  I  needn't  mind  taking  your  gold  pen 
yesterday  and  spoiling  it." 

"Estella,  I  have  told  you  many  times  not  to  go 
into  the  library  when  your  father  is  not  there," 
said  her  mother  reprovingly. 

"I  don't  care  how  much  she  goes  into  the  li- 
brary," said  Roger.  "You  may  '  repent '  or  not," 
he  added,  to  Estella,  "but  I  cannot  afford  a  new 
pen,  and  will  deduct  the  amount  from  your  next 
allowance."  The  girl  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"I  had  better  have  said  I  repented." 

"  For  that  matter  you  '11  generally  find  it  easier 
to  repent  of  a  thing  than  to  accept  the  conse- 
quences." 

Eleanor  bit  her  lips  to  hide  their  quivering. 
Something  caught  in  her  throat  and  brought  on  a 
fit  of  coughing,  which  wrenched  the  thin  frame  with- 
out mercy.  Estella  flew  to  her  side,  and  clasped  her 
in  her  strong  young  arms.  Roger  stepped  to  a  table 


178  ROGER  HUNT. 

and  poured  a  mixture  from  a  bottle  into  a  wine- 
glass, but  the  nurse,  hurriedly  entering-  at  that 
moment,  took  it  from  him  and  carried  it  to  the 
patient.  Seeling  his  presence  superfluous,  he  left 
the  room.  , 

Estella  remained  at  her  mother's  side,  assisting 
the  nurse  with  deft  and  willing  hands  until  quiet 
was  restored,  and  her  mother  breathed  freely  once 
more;  winning,  as  she  had  before,  the  hired  atten- 
dant's praise. 

"You'd  make  a  good  nurse  yourself,  Miss 
Stella." 

"Oh,  no,"  laughed  the  girl;  "not  unless  I  loved 
all  my  patients  as  I  do  my  first,"  bending  forward 
and  kissing  her  mother.  "But  I  should  like  to  be 
a  doctor,  and  ride  about  the  country,  giving  peo- 
ple advice,  and  collecting  the  fees."  She  laughed 
again,  and  drawing  a  chair,  sat  down  at  her  mo- 
ther's side,  taking  her  hand  and  gently  stroking 
it.  The  nurse,  Mrs.  Saunders,  left  the  room,  and 
Estella  grew  thoughtful  again. 

"Mamma,  why  does  papa  blame  good  people  for 
their  faults  so  much  more  than  bad  people?  "  By 
"good  "  people  Estella  meant  those  who  made  pub- 
lic profession  to  be  such. 

"You  don't  always  understand  your  father,  Es- 
tella." 

"Well,"  said  the  girl  with  a  sigh,  "I  don't  see 
why  it  is  any  worse  for  Mr.  Abbot  to  have  been 
dishonest  and  cheated  his  employer  than  it  would 
be  if  he  were  a  free-thinker,  like  papa." 


ROGER   HUNT.  179 

"  Surely,  my  dear,  you  think  people  should  live 
up  to  their  professions.  Deceit  is  a  sin  in  itself," 
a  shadow  falling  on  her  face. 

"Yes,  I  know."  ' 

"Not  that  I  mean  to  say  Mr.  Abbot  is  deceit- 
ful," her  mother  added  quickly.  "I  do  not  know 
him." 

"You  dear  mamma!  If  people  waited  for  you 
to  find  out  their  faults,  they  'd  have  an  easy  time." 

"I  don't  know  that  Estella  Hunt  has  always 
found  it  so." 

"No,"  with  a  smile,  "but  I  don't  count.  I 
don't  understand  either,"  coming  back  to  the  sub- 
ject that  occupied  her,  "why  papa  has  such  a  con- 
tempt for  the  'average '  opinion,  as  he  calls  it. 
Are  n't  most  of  us  average  people?" 

"Your  father  has  a  very  self-reliant  nature. 
He  looks  into  things  more  deeply  than  most  peo- 
ple do." 

"I  suppose  that  is  the  reason  he  likes  being  in 
the  minority.  I  heard  him  tell  Mr.  Clarke  once 
that  he  had  never  yet  voted  for  the  party  in  power. 
Does  that  mean  the  party  in  power  is  always 
wrong ;  or  that  it  is  wrong  because  it  is  in  power  ? 
What  good  can  the  other  one  do  if  it  never  gets  in 
power?  Oh,  dear!  I  get  all  mixed  up  thinking 
about  it,"  and  she  laughed  dolefully. 

"You  must  talk  with  your  father  on  these  sub- 
jects, my  dear,"  but  this  was  advice  the  mother 
knew  was  not  easy  to  follow. 

"I'll    stop    talking  with    you  any  way.     You 


180  ROGER  HUNT. 

must  rest,"  and  Estella  rose.  Stepping  behind 
the  invalid's  chair,  she  pressed  her  foot  on  a 
spring  and  lowered  it  gently.  She  then  adjusted 
the  pillows  and  prepared  to  leave  her.  Bending 
above  her,  she  asked  one  more  question. 

"Do  you  object  to  my  going  to  church,  mam- 
ma? " 

"Not  if  your  father  is  willing;  not  if  it  does 
you  any  good." 

"I  don't  know  whether  it  does  me  good  or  not. 
I  only  know  it  seems  to  do  me  harm  to  stay  away. 
I  don't  see  the  use  of  being  so  different  from  every- 
body else,  and  I  can't  think  religion  is  all  a  sham, 
as  papa  does.  I  am  sure  if  I  were  religious  I 
should  be  a  better  girl." 

"You  misunderstand  your  father,"  her  mother 
said,  repeating  the  substance  of  her  first  reply. 
"And  you  are  a  very  good  girl,  as  it  is.  Run 
away  now,  dear.  I  must  try  to  sleep,"  and  with 
the  exchange  of  a  kiss,  Estella  left  the  room. 

In  the  long  seclusion  of  her  sick-room,  Eleanor 
had  had  opportunity  to  reflect  on  many  things, 
especially  on  the  far-reaching  questions  of  love  and 
marriage,  which,  aside  from  the  peculiar  circum- 
stances of  the  case,  were  of  keen  interest  to  both 
Roger  and  herself,  though  they  had  long  ceased  to 
discuss  them  together.  Roger's  views  remained 
unchanged,  but  were  difficult  to  summarize.  He 
believed  as  strongly  as  ever  in  man's  first,  su- 
preme right  to  happiness,  regarding  most  obstacles 


EOGER  HUNT.  181 

to  its  attainment  as  purely  arbitrary,  or  springing 
from  human  cowardice.  He  was  as  innate  a  rebel 
now  as  at  nineteen,  with  nearly  the  courage  of  that 
period ;  nor  was  the  disposition  to  invent  and  test 
new  theories  of  his  own  wholly  outgrown. 

He  admitted  that  the  most  daring  experiment  he 
had  tried  had  failed,  but  was  ready  to  show  by  a 
subtle  process  of  reasoning  that  this  failure  was 
due  to  no  lack  of  merit  in  his  original  purpose. 
Its  cause  lay  outside  himself,  as  it  did  outside  just 
expectation  and  reason. 

Eleanor,  obliged  also  to  admit  the  failure,  knew 
well  where  Roger  placed  the  blame.  The  blame 
was  hers.  The  grief  and  despair  which  this  know- 
ledge first  caused  had  partly  died  out,  not  because 
of  failing  sensibility  on  her  part,  or  lessened 
power  on  his;  but  consciousness  had  simply  be- 
come dulled  to  the  thought  of  Roger's  disappoint- 
ment in  her,  as  certain  parts  of  the  body  had 
grown  used  to  pain.  Somewhat  calloused  as  she 
had  thus  grown  to  his  changed  opinion  of  her,  she 
never  had  any  feeling  of  retaliatory  blame  or  sense 
of  injury.  Perhaps  it  was  because  she  had  alv/ays 
been  an  underling  of  fate  that  she  had  so  little 
power  of  resentment.  She  knew  Roger  so  well 
that  she  could  even  see  a  certain  sort  of  justice  in 
his  condemnation  of  her.  She  admitted  now,  as 
she  had  years  before,  the  strength  of  the  self -consis- 
tency that  ruled  all  his  actions,  and  the  weakness 
of  a  nature  like  her  own,  continually  halting  and 
wavering  on  its  course.  Her  strength  had  begun 


182  ROGER  HUNT. 

to  fail  her  from  the  first.  She  acknowledged  this 
humbly,  without  complaint  against  any  one  else. 
One  thing  only  still  hurt  as  much  as  it  puzzled 
her,  that  Roger  should  count  her  failing  strength 
as  failing  love. 

It  was  hard  to  understand  Roger's  theory  of 
love.  What  is  love?  she  asked  herself,  over  and 
over.  The  love  of  man  and  woman,  what  is  that? 
Roger  seemed  to  mean  nothing  else,  when  he 
talked  of  love.  All  the  main  friendships  of  his 
life  had  been  with  women,  and  he  was  more  or  less 
a  lover  in  all  such  friendships,  which  he  had  not 
ceased  to  cultivate  altogether  since  he  married 
Eleanor.  But  to  Eleanor's  feeling,  refined  through 
physical  suffering  and  mental  conflict,  love  was 
daily  losing  its  personal  aspect,  growing  into  some- 
thing much  larger  if  more  vague,  at  once  more 
near  and  far  removed.  Without  knowing  it,  it 
was  the  religious  thought  of  love  which  was  slowly 
filling  her  soul.  She  had  learned  much  from  Em- 
erson's poem,  "The  Initial,  the  Daemonic,  and  the 
Celestial  Love,"  which  she  read  many  times  before 
she  understood  it,  feeling  newly  sustained  and  con- 
victed with  every  reading. 

But  God  said, 

I  will  have  a  purer  gift  ; 

There  is  smoke  in  the  flame. 

These  were  the  lines  that  repeated  themselves  in 
memory  and  condensed  the  poem's  lesson.  She 
had  called  Roger's  attention  to  it,  who  pronounced 
it  a  piece  of  transcendental  moonshine ;  yet  he  also 


EOGEB  HUNT.  183 

was  an  admirer  of  Emerson,  whom  he  continually 
quoted  in  support  of  his  own  advanced  and  inde- 
pendent views. 

To  Eleanor  the  poem  taught  the  progress  of  the 
spirit  from  lower,  material  forms  of  love  to  the 
highest,  from  earthly  passion  to  heavenly  calm  and 
beneficence.  That  was  enough!  The  distinction 
between  love  as  passion  and  love  as  aspiration 
grew  clearer  to  her.  In  most  souls,  finitely  cir- 
cumstanced, they  dwell  together  in  endless  struggle ; 
in  a  few  rarely-conditioned  lives,  warm  but  stain- 
less, they  blend  into  one.  A  piece  of  heaven  is 
dropped  down  to  earth  in  the  homes  that  crystallize 
about  such  loves,  the  records  of  which  have  become 
historic ;  but  Eleanor  knew  now  that  Roger's  and 
hers  was  not  to  be  counted  among  these. 

She  never  went  so  far  as  to  claim  that  hers  was 
one  kind  of  love,  Roger's  another;  she  was  content 
to  trace  the  workings  of  the  two  principles  in  dif- 
ferent natures.  She  need  not  have  feared,  however, 
to  pronounce  Roger's  an  example  of  passional  love, 
for  it  was  what  he  would  have  eloquently  defended, 
with  logic  the  more  persuasive  that  his  worst  en- 
emy could  not  have  said  it  sprung  from  vulgar  in- 
stincts. Love  to  him  meant  absolute  absorption 
in  its  object.  Dr.  Holmes's  simile  of  the  double 
stars,  revolving  about  each  other,  living  in  each 
other's  reflected  light,  satisfied  him  wholly.  It 
expressed  much  to  Eleanor,  also,  but  she  remem- 
bered another  law,  primary  and  antecedent,  which 
these  happy  double  stars,  as  well  as  those  that  move 


184  ROGER  HUNT. 

in  single  state,  must  obey,  guiding  their  common 
revolution  around  some  central  sun.  It  was  this 
thought  of  love,  springing  from  a  sense  of  loyalty 
to  something  higher  than  itself,  that  Eleanor  was 
reaching  after. 

How,  then,  did  she  so  mistake?  is  it  asked.  Be- 
cause to  a  nature,  timid  but  aspiring,  like  hers, 
the  daring  thing,  the  forbidden,  done  in  attempted 
mitigation  of  known  suffering  and  wrong,  may 
well  seem  the  only  true  thing.  Experience  is 
costly,  especially  with  the  timid,  and  to  Eleanor  it 
had  seemed  for  a  time  to  threaten  moral  beg- 
gary. This  was  another  proof  of  Roger's  fatuous 
theory  that  love  is  sufficient.  She  had  tried  to  be- 
lieve this,  to  act  on  it,  but  she  now  saw  that  such 
a  conception  of  love  belongs  but  to  a  single  stage 
of  human  experience,  and  helps  very  little  to  solve 
the  great  problems  of  life  and  destiny.  She  no 
longer  believed  with  Roger  in  man's  right  to  hap- 
piness, but  she  was  learning  to  trace  Nature's  wish 
to  bestow  it,  so  poorly  understood  and  aided  by 
her  human  child.  Happiness,  to  her,  must  be  de- 
fined in  terms  of  mental  peace  and  calm,  but  to 
Roger  it  must  still  assume  some  form  of  emotional 
excess. 

From  Emerson  and  from  another  source,  much 
humbler,  Eleanor  had  received  the  help  she  needed. 
From  Nurse  Saunders,  as  she  was  familiarly 
called,  who  was  also,  except  for  Estella,  the  sick 
woman's  principal  companion. 

There  was  nothing1  in  the    appearance  of  Mrs. 


ROGER  HUNT.  185 

Saunders  to  excite  romantic  expectation.  After 
the  death  of  her  husband  she  had  sold  the  farm 
and  moved  to  Garrison,  taking  up  the  vocation 
of  nurse.  She  had  been  reluctant  to  assume  her 
present  position,  preferring,  with  utilitarian  wis- 
dom, to  take  care  of  people  who  expected  to  get 
well ;  but  consenting  to  take  the  place  temporarily, 
she  became  so  much  attached  to  her  charge  that 
she  stayed  on.  The  duties  were  not  heavy,  though 
constant,  and  Roger  paid  her  liberally.  Apart 
from  the  relation  of  the  sick-room  the  two  women 
soon  became  excellent  friends. 

Mrs.  Saunders  was  uneducated,  save  in  the  dis- 
trict-school sense  of  the  term,  but  not  illiterate, 
being  a  diligent  reader  of  the  daily  paper  and  an 
inveterate  reader  of  novels.  Here  the  tastes  of 
the  two  differed.  Most  of  Eleanor's  reading  was 
of  the  higher  order  of  poetry ;  she  seldom  opened 
a  work  of  fiction,  perhaps  because  truth  had  proved 
so  much  stranger  in  her  case.  She  listened  with 
amused  and  dreamy  interest  to  her  attendant's  ac- 
counts of  the  made-up  people  she  had  formed  last 
acquaintance  with,  and  gathered  from  certain 
words  that  fell  from  her  lips  from  time  to  time 
that  she  had  had  some  unusual  heart  experiences 
of  her  own.  One  day  Mrs.  Saunders's  narrative 
took  a  personal  turn,  and  Eleanor  learned  some- 
thing of  her  history.  They  had  been  discussing  a 
new  novel,  of  which  the  reader  had  given  her  lis- 
tener an  outline. 

"  Her  first  lover  died,  and  she  married  this  other 


186  ROGER  HUNT. 

man  to  please  her  folks,  her  ma  more  especially. 
He  was  a  good  man  and  of  more  v  count  than  the 
first;  but  you  think  she  did  wrong,  ma'am?" 

"I  don't  wish  to  judge  her,"  said  Eleanor,  who 
sat  in  half-reclining  position  in  the  large  wheeled 
chair.  "There  should  be  110  marriage  without 
love." 

"And  you  don't  think  that  kinder  respectful 
feelin'  she  had  for  him  could  take  the  place  of 
love?"  the  nurse  inquired,  with  a  touch  of  wistful- 
ness. 

"No." 

"You  think  first  love  is  the  only  true  love?  " 

"I  wouldn't  say  that." 

"Well,  that 's  what  most  of  the  folks  who  write 
the  books  try  to  make  out.  It 's  different,  I  '11  ad- 
mit, more  upsettin'.  That 's  the  reason,  I  expect, 
folks  think  it 's  stronger.  But  there  's  more  than 
one  woman  lived  to  be  thankful  she  didn't  marry 
her  first  love."  She  paused  a  moment.  "I  didn't 
marry  mine,"  she  added.  Eleanor  looked  at  her 
with  new  interest. 

"You  did  not  love  your  husband?"  she  asked 
softly,  with  a  faint  accent  of  reproach. 

"Not  at  first,  ma'am.  I  was  like  the  girl  in 
the  book.  She  was  a  city  girl  and  had  b'en  to  Eu- 
rope; Id'  know  's  I  'd  ought  to  make  such  a  com- 
parison," she  added  apologetically.  "I  married 
John  Saunders  to  please  my  folks." 

"Then  your  first  lover  died?"  Eleanor  said  in 
a  sympathetic  tone. 


ROGER  HUNT.  187 

"No  ma'am,  he  didn't  die;  he  deserted  me." 

"Deserted  you!  " 

"He  denied  it  afterwards, "the  speaker  went  on, 
as  composedly  as  if  she  was  reciting  one  of  her 
written  stories,  and  indeed  she  had  about  the  same 
impersonal  feeling  for  it  now.  "At  least  he  apol- 
ogized," she  laughed  as  the  word  dropped  from 
her  lips.  "I  mean  he  tried  to  explain  it  away. 
Said  he  went  away  because  I  was  too  good  for  him, 
that  I  had  stricter  notions  'bout  things  than  he 

O 

had,  and  that  he  knew  he  never  could  live  up  to 
'em.  Said  he  knew  it  would  be  hard  on  me  for  a 
spell,  but  I  'd  thank  him  afterwards.  Wa'n't  that 
funny,  ma'am?  But  it  didn't  look  very  funny 
to  me  then." 

"Do  you  mean  that  you  believed  him?" 

"I  guess  I  didn't  really  believe  him,  but  I 
wanted  to  believe  him.  He  talked  that  kind  of 
soft  and  artful —  'Dolf  Graham  always  could  —  he 
got  me  to  feelin'  more  sorry  for  him  than  I  ever 
had  for  myself.  I  guess  that 's  what  he  set  out  to 
do." 

"Then  why  did  you  marry  another  man?*' 
Eleanor  asked  in  the  same  tone  of  reproach.  Nurse 
Saunders  looked  at  her  with  a  puzzled  face. 

"Why  did  I  marry  John  Saunders?  I  'd  been 
married  to  him  pretty  near  two  years  when  'Dolf 
Graham  came  back." 

Eleanor  looked  more  astonished  still  at  this. 
Here  was  something  she  had  not  expected,  which 
lent  a  new  and  vivid  interest  to  the  subject. 


188  ROGER  HUNT, 

"And  did  he  want  to  take  you  away  ?  "  she  asked, 
leaning  forward  in  her  chair  and  holding  her  breath 
for  the  reply. 

"  Take  me  away  ?     Who  ?     John  ?  " 

"No,  no,  the  other  one,  your  lover.  Did  he 
want  you  to  go  away  with  him,  and  leave  your 
husband  ?  " 

Nurse  Saunders  straightened  her  tall,  gaunt 
figure  and  looked  at  her  patient  as  if  in  doubt  of 
her  sanity. 

"I  don't  think  I  understand,  ma'am.  What 
kind  of  a  woman  do  you  think  I  be  ?  'T  was  bad 
enough  my  lettin'  'Dolf  Graham  say  a  word  to  me 
that  day  I  run  acrost  him  in  Mis'  Peckham's  or- 
chard. Mis'  Peckham  'd  said  I  could  have  all  the 
early  pippins  I  wanted,  if  I  'd  pick  'em  up  off  the 
ground.  Apples  was  very  plenty  that  year.  You 
think  I  'd  let  a  man  propose  such  a  thing  as  that 
tome?" 

"I  —  I  did  n't  mean  to  offend  you." 

"That's  all  right,  ma'am.  You  didn't  know 
John  Saunders,"  she  added  excusingly.  "No 
woman  John  Saunders  wanted  to  marry  'd  ever 
shame  and  disgrace  him  like  that.  Besides, 
ma'am,"  and  the  homely  face  was  suffused  with  a 
tender  warmth  here,  "I  had  my  little  girl  then. 
A  child  '11  generally  keep  a  woman  right,  if  no- 
thin'  else  does." 

Eleanor's  eyes  rested  in  troubled  fashion  on  her 
folded  hands,  and  she  murmured  a  faint  affirma- 
tive. 


ROGER  HUNT.  189 

"  Men  '11  desert  their  children  —  some  men  will 
—  but  women  won't,  at  least,  not  often." 

"It  is  quite  natural,"  said  Eleanor,  in  a  low 
tone,  "that  a  mother  should  think  more  of  her 
child  than  the  father.  She  has  cared  for  it  from 
birth,  —  and  before.  There  is  very  little  a  man 
can  do  for  his  child,  especially  when  it  is  little. 
Sometimes  he  is  situated  so  that  it  becomes  almost 
a  stranger  to  him.  We  should  not  be  too  hard  on 
him  then,  I  think.  It  seems  as  if  Nature  meant 
the  mother  to  be  more  to  the  child  than  the  fa- 
ther is." 

"Mebbe  she  did.  Then  she's  carried  out  her 
intention;  the  men  have  helped  her,"  with  a  grim 
smile.  "'T  wa'n't  that  way  at  our  house,  though. 
Our  little  one  took  to  her  father,  first  thing.  He 
was  always  a  dandlin'  and  pettin'  her;  and  if  she 
took  sick,  it  was  he  who  'd  want  to  take  all  the  care 
of  her.  Used  to  kinder  put  me  out,  sometimes. 
But  then  everybody  liked  John.  Folks  was  al- 
ways comin'  to  him  for  advice,  and  when  they  was 
in  trouble.  Yet  he  was  one  of  the  quietest  men 
ye  ever  see,  too." 

"You  are  quite  sure  you  didn't  love  him?" 
Eleanor  asked  smiling. 

"P'raps  I  did,  but  not  the  way  the  books  ex- 
plain; sometimes  I  think  it  don't  matter  if  I 
did  n't,  and  there  's  other  feelin's  worth  as  much 
in  marriage  as  love,  and  more  sure  to  bring  peace 
and  happiness.  That 's  the  p'int  I  'm  comin'  to. 
There  wa'n't  never  much  romancin'  between  me 


190  ROGER  HUNT. 

and  John.  I  did  n't  never  have  that  quivery,  all- 
go-to-pieces  kind  o'  feelin'  with  him  I  used  to  have 
every  time  'Dolf  Graham  came  near  me.  I  used 
to  be  jealous  if  'Dolf  spoke  to  another  girl,  but  I 
wa'n't  never  jealous  of  John.  P'raps  that  was 
because  I  knew  John  did  n't  care  about  the  girls. 
I  could  trust  him.  Nobody  trusted  'Dolf  Graham. 
You  look  puzzled,  ma'am,  and  no  wonder.  I  've 
give  up  tryin'  to  think  it  out  myself.  All  I  know  is 
't  was  lucky  for  me  I  did  n't  marry  'Dolf  Graham." 

"And  you  were  happy  with  your  husband?  " 
.  "Yes,  ma'am;  though  there  wa'n't  never  much 
philanderm'  between  us,  as  I  say.  I  knew  John 
was  a  good  man ;  and  after  you  've  made  your 
choice  in  marriage  you  '11  stand  by  it,  if  you  're 
the  right  sort.  I  couldn't  help  feelin'  account- 
able to  John,  some  way.  His  good  name  was  mine, 
his  honor  and  comfort  was  mine,  too.  I  was  bound 
to  help  him  keep  'em  all.  I  knew  John  'd  cut  off 
his  right  hand  for  me;  and  I  knew  he  trusted  me 
as  much  as  I  did  him.  John  would  'a'  died  before 
he  'd  deceive  any  one,  and  I  could  n't  deceive  him. 
That 's  the  reason  I  had  to  tell  him  'bout  'Dolf 
Graham,  and  my  meetin'  him  that  day  in  Mis' 
Peckham's  orchard." 

"You  told  him  that?" 

"Yes  'm.  I  had  to  tell  him.  Seems  if  my  only 
help  lay  that  way.  I  knew  'Dolf  wa'n't  none  too 
good  to  throw  himself  in  my  way  again,  and  I  'd 
be  silly  enough  to  let  him,  perhaps,  if  nobody  knew. 
You  see  I  was  kinder  hangin'  on  to  John  in  my 


EOGEB  HUNT.  191 

thoughts  even  when  I  was  wrongin'  him,  same  as 
you  do  to  God.  I  don't  mean  to  be  irreverent, 
ma'am,  but  the  Bible  itself  says  you  can't  know  the 
love  of  Him  save  through  the  love  of  his  creatures. 
Then  there  was  the  child ;  she  was  John's  child, 
too,  you  know.  Seems  if  I  couldn't  never  lift 
her  out  of  her  cradle  again,  and  her  a  lookin'  up 
to  me,  laughin'  and  stretchin'  out  her  arms,  till  I  'd 
told  her  father  everything.  So  I  told  him." 

"Was  he  angry?" 

"Yes  'm;  but  that  wa'n't  the  hardest  to  bear. 
It  was  his  bein'  so  hurt  and  surprised.  He  looked 
just  sick,  and  shook  all  over  for  a  few  minits.  I 
could  see  that  he  blamed  me,  at  the  same  time  he 
tried  not  to,  'cause  I  'd  b'en  honest  and  told  him 
everything.  He  knew  the  meetin'  was  an  acci- 
dent as  far 's  I  was  concerned,  but  I  guess  he 
didn't  think  it  was  much  of  an  accident  on  the 
other  side.  I  didn't  neither." 

"Were  you  afraid  he  would  hurt  him?  —  that 
John  would  hurt  'Dolf,  your  lover,  I  mean,"  Elea- 
nor explained  as  the  other  did  not  seem  to  under- 
stand. 

•  "I'd  rather  you  wouldn't  call  him  my  lover, 
ma'am,  in  that  way,"  Mrs.  Saunders  said  respect- 
fully, but  in  a  tone  that  brought  the  color  to  her 
mistress'  cheek.  "John  was  my  lover,  too.  No. 
I  wa'n't  afraid  of  his  hurtin'  nobody.  I  don't 
know  whether  John  ever  said  anything  to  him  or 
not;  all  I  know  is  'Dolf  left  them  parts,  and  we 
didn't  see  anything  more  of  him." 


192  ROGER  HUNT. 

"And  you  never  had  any  regrets,  any  troubled 
thoughts  about  him?  " 

"No,  ma'am,  not  after  I'd  told  John.  Seems 
if  I  'd  committed  myself  then,  like,  as  if  I  'd  got 
through  all  that  foolishness  and  begun  over  again. 
I  've  sometimes  thought  I  wa'n't  really  married  to 
John  till  then,  till  he  knew  the  worst  of  me,  and 
had  forgive  me  and  took  me  back.  And  now  I 
want  to  know  ma'am,"  coming  back  to  the  point 
she  had  started  from,  "whether,  when  a  girl  has 
to  choose  between  the  man  she  loves  but  don't  re- 
spect, and  the  man  she  respects  but  don't  love,  she 
ain't  a  lot  safer  choosin'  the  last?" 

Eleanor  smiled.  This  was  evidently  the  lesson 
Nurse  Saunders  had  gained  from  her  own  life- 
story.  Love,  to  her,  remained  the  vexatious,  con- 
tradictory feeling  she  had  found  it  in  early  youth ;. 
the  quiet,  trustful  feeling  she  had  for  her  husband, 
something  quite  different.  Eleanor  saw  there  was 
some  mental  confusion  here,  but  she  learned  anew 
how  essential  it  is  that  love  should  contain  some 
element  of  moral  worth. 

Love,  with  its  first  illusions  destroyed,  its  trans- 
forming power  lost,  what  remains?  she  asked  her- 
self. Will  the  "  respect "  Mrs.  Saunders  praised 
so  highly,  the  wish^io  be  just,  mutual  kindness  and 
forbearance,  take  its  place?  The  prospect  here 
opened  was  not  cheerful,  yet  Eleanor  had  tasted  a 
love  that  disappointed  more  than  this.  She  could 
only  conclude  that  love,  like  truth,  in  its  human 
application,  must  express  itself  in  terms  of  human 


ROGER  HUNT.  193 

failure  and  incompleteness.  It  reigns  pure  and 
absolute  only  at  its  source.  Yet  because  it  reigns 
there  it  is  found  everywhere,  though  distorted 
from  its  true  shape,  often  appearing  in  forms  that 
mock  and  belie  it.  All  men  are  lovers,  up  to  their 
degree;  the  conjugal,  the  paternal,  the  social  im- 
pulse, each  is  but  a  phase  of  one  divine  emotion 
filling  the  universe.  Every  form  of  hate,  wrong- 
doing, and  suffering  must  sooner  or  later  feel  its 
healing  touch. 

Thus  Eleanor  reasoned,  dimly  and  unhelped, 
within  herself.  She  was  growing  far  more  a  lover 
than  Roger  ever  had  been;  but  she  was  no  nearer 
pleasing  him. 


XIII. 

THE  mental  steps  by  which  Roger's  first  feeling 
of  contemptuous  disparagement  towards  his  pupil, 
Nina  Clarke,  changed  to  a  more  favorable  one  need 
not  be  described.  The  change  was  the  natural 
result  of  the  association  of  two  minds,  one  of  a 
self-effacing  and  worshipful  order,  the  other  mas- 
terful and  fond  of  being  worshiped.  Incapacity 
loses  half  its  meaning  when  it  makes  frank  recog- 
nition of  itself;  and  Nina's  meek  and  tireless 
efforts  to  'overcome  her  deficiencies,  the  fact  that 
she  never  tried  to  make  extrinsic  qualities  serve  in 
the  place  of  more  essential  ones,  could  not  but  in 
time  more  than  fill  the  place  of  missing  brilliancy 
and  self-assertion.  This  native  humility  did  much 
to  ennoble  a  character  that  might  otherwise  have 
appeared  commonplace. 

For  a  time  after  their  renewed  acquaintance 
Roger  judged  her  as  superficially  as  he  had  always 
done.  Her  beauty  made  no  impression  on  him 
save  to  irritate  and  create  suspicion  against  her. 
Nina  looked  forward  to  the  lesson  hour  with  much 
the  same  mingled  feelings  of  dread  and  longing  to 
please  as  when  she  studied  with  Estella.  Strangely 
enough,  or  perhaps  not  strangely,  since  fear,  we 
are  told,  is  the  basis  of  worship,  these  feelings 


ROGER  HUNT.  195 

never  lessened  admiration  in  this  direction.  Her 
teacher  was  still  to  her  a  superior  order  of  being. 

Nina  Clarke's  large  and  silent  nature  was  just 
the  kind  for  romantic  imagination  to  dwell  and 
rove  about  in.  What  her  mother  called  dullness 
was  in  truth  a  spirit  of  brooding  gravity,  absorbed 
in  problems  only  dimly  denned  to  her  young  con- 
sciousness, yet  filling  it  with  keen  anticipations  of 
joy  and  pain.  It  was  not  his  literary  pretensions 
alone  that  made  Roger  the  subject  of  so  much  spec- 
ulation to  herself  and  others,  but  his  retired  and 
solitary  life,  the  unique  character  and  habits  of  the 
entire  household,  shadowed  by  sickness,  and  a  kind 
of  mysterious  privacy  no  one  seemed  ever  to  have 
gained  the  exact  secret  of. 

Had  Roger  once  suspected  his  pupil's  feeling 
towards  himself,  his  own  would  have  speedily 
changed ;  for  the  admiration  we  arouse  in  others  is 
apt  to  excite  a  similar  feeling  in  return,  among  the 
most  self-absorbed.  Mrs.  Clarke's  open  regard 
for  and  pride  in  him,  as  a  friend,  he  understood 
and  valued,  though  sensible  at  times  of  the  burdens 
it  involved;  but  the  daughter's  silence  and  ready 
embarrassment  he  construed,  as  others  did,  into 
signs  of  mental  deficiency.  So  far  was  he  from 
surmising  the  real  nature  of  her  feeling  towards 
him  that  he  had  charged  her  with  that  gravest 
fault  of  all,  to  a  man  of  his  disposition,  utter  lack  of 
appreciation,  springing,  he  thought,  from  ingrati- 
tude and  slow  wit.  One  day  he  learned  his  mis- 
take. 


196  ROGER  HUNT. 

Nina  had  been  reading  aloud  a  selection  from 
Chaucer.  Her  usual  timidity  was  heightened  by 
the  difficulties  of  the  text,  and  the  performance  was 
very  bad.  Roger  listened  with  poorly  concealed 
impatience,  correcting  in  nearly  every  line,  until 
the  strain  on  nerves  and  temper  became  too  great, 
and  he  broke  out  into  petulant  rebuke,  accompa- 
nied with  a  few  words  of  stinging  sarcasm  and 
ridicule,  which  aroused  a  feeling  of  indignity  even 
in  Nina.  Smarting  with  a  sense  of  injury  and  her 
own  deficiency,  she  mustered  all  her  courage  and 
rose  to  her  feet,  trembling  at  her  own  boldness. 

"It  is  too  trying  to  you  to  have  to  teach  me, 
Mr.  Hunt.  I  shall  ask  mamma  to  discontinue  the 
lessons."  Roger  was  amazed,  and  looked  at  her  a 
moment  without  speaking.  She  stood  erect  before 
him,  but  she  did  not  look  at  him,  and  was  visibly 
discomposed. 

She  was  very  beautiful.  Her  furred  cloak  had 
fallen  from  her,  and  her  tall,  well-formed  figure 
was  clearly  outlined  against  the  window  and  the 
brilliant  winter  landscape  beyond.  Her  face  was 
shadowed  by  the  large  hat  she  wore,  covered  with 
drooping  plumes.  Roger  noticed  these  details, 
but  cared  less  for  them  than  for  something  else,  the 
indefinable  charm  of  womanliness  hanging  over  all, 
never  noticed  before.  He  seemed  to  be  seeing  his 
pupil  for  the  first  time.  Until  now  he  had  thought 
of  her,  chiefly,  as  Estella's  companion ;  now  he  saw 
her  as  a  woman,  —  a  light  that  could  not  fail  to 
interest  him. 


ROGER  HUNT.  197 

A  witty  observer  of  the  Gallic  race  has  said  that 
some  woman  is  always  uppermost  in  a  Frenchman's 
mind ;  Roger  was  true  French  in  this  respect.  He 
felt  the  thrill  of  old  emotions  as  he  looked  at  Nina, 
and  recalling  the  words  he  had  just  spoken  to  her, 
he  was  uncomfortable ;  but  he  would  not  yield  his 
ground  too  quickly. 

"Nonsense!  "  he  said,  with  attempted  lightness. 
"Sit  down.  We  have  not  finished  yet." 

"  Excuse  me,  sir,  I  would  rather  not  try  to  fin- 
ish." She  spoke  without  resentment,  but  with  a 
settled  discouragement  of  tone  that  sounded  more 
resolute  than  it  was.  Roger's  surprise  grew,  and 
his  interest  was  strongly  piqued.  Mrs.  Clarke's 
words,  "She  is  terribly  afraid  of  you,"  returned  to 
him.  He  rose  to  his  feet. 

"Now  it  is  you  who  are  unkind,"  he  said,  in  a 
gentler  voice  than  she  had  ever  heard  in  him  be- 
fore. "I  was  rude  to  you,  I  know.  I  forgot  my- 
self; I  sincerely  beg  your  pardon." 

Nothing  could  have  astonished  Nina  more.  That 
Mr.  Hunt  should  speak  to  her  in  this  manner, 
seem  really  to  regret  what  he  had  done,  and'  seek 
her  forgiveness  was  incredible.  A  deep  flush 
spread  over  her  face,  the  eyes  grew  darker  with 
grateful  emotion,  and  filled  with  tears. 

"Will  you  not  sit  down  again?"  he  asked,  in  a 
still  gentler  tone,  and  she  sank  slowly  in  her  place. 

"Xow  we  will  begin  again,"  he  said,  reseating 
himself,  and  speaking  in  his  cheerfullest  manner. 
Nina,  mindful  of  his  interests  even  then,  glanced 
towards  the  clock. 


198  ROGER  HUNT. 

"I  am  afraid  the  time  is  up,  sir." 

"Never  mind  the  time!  I  will  read  and  you 
shall  listen,"  and  he  took  up  the  book.  He  found 
the  passage  he  wanted,  and  began.  Roger  was  a 
good  reader,  and  like  all  such,  fond  of  the  exercise. 
He  had  an  agreeable  voice,  and  Nina  felt  the 
beauty  of  the  measured  lines  in  their  musical  ut- 
terance, gathering  the  meaning  in  a  vague,  pleasur- 
able way. 

"That  was  very  beautiful,"  she  said  at  the  close. 

"Could  you  understand  it?  " 

"I  don't  know,"  flushing  and  hesitating.  "I 
seemed  to  understand  it,  every  word,  when  you 
were  reading  it,  but  I  —  I  am  afraid  I  could  not 
tell  much  about  it  now."  She  looked  at  him  tim- 
idly, in  fear  of  reproof,  but  he  smiled  indulgently. 

"Chaucer  was  a  great  old  bojV  he  said,  tossing 
the  book  on  the  table.  "We  have  had  no  poets  of 
his  size  since." 

"Not  even  Shakespeare?"  she  asked. 

An  hour  before  such  a  question  would  have  been 
received  with  scornful  impatience,  but  Roger's 
amiability  remained  undisturbed. 

"We  don't  count  Shakespeare,  you  know.  He 
stands  by  himself,  always." 

"Yes,  of  course,"  she  said  apologetically.  "It 
was  foolish  in  me  to  ask  that." 

"  In  one  sense  they  were  alike ;  they  both  lived 
out-of-doors." 

"That  is  just  what  I  heard  mamma  say  once 
about  Browning,"  said  Nina,  pleased  with  herself 
for  this  apt  remembrance. 


ROGER  HUNT.  199 

Roger  shrugged  his  shoulders.  Mrs.  Clarke 
was  leader  of  the  Browning  "craze,"  as  its  detrac- 
tors called  it,  in  Garrison,  a  movement  Roger 
sympathized  with  as  little  as  most  early  lovers  of 
the  poet,  who  had  made  their  own  discoveries,  and 
were  little  influenced  by  the  sudden  fame  which  a 
later  generation  had  bestowed  on  him. 

"If  you  want  to  read  Browning,  don't  do  it  in 
a  Browning  class.  Some  day  I  '11  read  you  some- 
thing." 

"Oh,  thank  you,"  was  the  reply  spoken  in  a 
fervent  tone.  She  rose,  drew  her  cloak  around 
her  and  stepped  towards  the  door,  her  teacher 
rising  and  following  her.  He  placed  his  hand  on 
the  latch  to  open  it  for  her,  a  new  attention,  that 
embarrassed  almost  as  much  as  it  pleased  her. 

"So  you  thought  I  was  rather  cross?"  he  said, 
smiling  and  still  keeping  his  hand  on  the  door. 
She  colored  and  was  silent. 

"You  shoull  hear  me  scold  Estella  sometimes, 
if  you  think  I  am  severe  with  you." 

She  had,  and  had  thought  Estella' s  lot  not  the 
hardest ;  but  this  memory  grew  dim  now. 

"  I  should  not  mind  being  scolded  like  Estella ; 
I  should  take  it  as  a  proof  of  interest" —  This 
was  not  just  what  she  meant  to  say,  and  she 
stopped  in  new  confusion.  He  looked  at  her  a 
moment. 

"I  take  as  much  interest  in  you  as  in  Estella," 
he  said  boldly. 

"Oh,  sir,  you  could  not,  I  am  sure."  Nina's 
"sir"  was  very  enticing. 


200  BOGEB  HUNT. 

"Not  of  the  same  kind,  perhaps,"  he  explained, 
in  an  easy  tone.  "Estella  is  a  child.  I  suspect 
you  have  been  afraid  of  me  all  this  time ;  you  think 
me  a  great  bear,"  and  he  smiled  teasingly. 

"I  think  you  are  very  good  to  be  willing  to 
teach  me  at  all." 

"Then  if  I  am  to  continue,  you  must  promise 
not  to  be  afraid." 

She  flushed  more  deeply  than  before. 

"Is  it  a  bargain?"  he  asked,  and  extended  his 
hand.  She  placed  hers  shyly  in  it. 

"We  are  to  be  good  friends,  then,"  as  he  held 
it  a  moment. 

"You  are  very  kind,  sir."  He  was  about  to 
open  the  door  to  let  her  pass  through,  when  one  on 
the  other  side  of  the  room  was  opened,  and  Estella 
entered. 

"Oh,  Nina,  I  was  afraid  you  had  gone!  "  Her 
father  looked  at  her  with  a  slight  frown. 

"  Estella,  I  wish  you  would  learn  to  enter  a  room 
with  a  little  more  ceremony."  She  looked  at  him 
in  surprise.  She  had  never  received  such  a  re- 
proof before,  and  with  only  Nina  Clarke  there ;  she 
could  not  understand  it. 

"I  only  wanted  to  ask  Nina  if  I  might  walk 
home  with  her,"  she  replied  with  a  little  pout. 

"Of  course,"  Nina  answered,  "I  shall  be  very 
glad  to  have  you." 

The  tone  was  cordial,  but  a  little  forced.  Nina 
really  wished  to  be  alone  to  think  over  the  events 
of  the  morning,  the  remembrance  of  which  held 


EOGER  HUNT. 


201 


her  in  a  dream-like  state  throughout  the  day.  She 
replied  rather  abstractedly  to  some  of  Estella's  re- 
marks, thinking  she  seemed  younger  than  she  ever 
had  before,  while  Estella  felt,  as  she  often  did  of 
late,  that  she  had  lost  her  friend  entirely. 

Though  Roger  did  not  look  forward  to  the  next 
lesson  as  Nina  did,  he  retained  a  distinct  impres- 
sion of  her,  of  a  new  order,  and  welcomed  her  cor- 
dially. After  this  he  did  a  large  share  of  the  read- 
ing himself,  and  the  lessons  took  on  a  less  formal 
and  more  companionable  tone  from  week  to  week. 
Nina  seemed  to  have  lost  all  power  to  vex  or  weary 
her  teacher.  She  was  too  young  and  inexperi- 
enced to  inquire  deeply  into  the  change,  feeling 
only  the  new  unexpected  happiness  it  brought. 

It  was  characteristic  of  Roger  that  having  learned 
to  tolerate  his  pupil  he  should  at  once  begin  to 
idealize  her.  Through  the  innocent  aid  of  books 
and  under  the  pretense  of  study,  not  wholly  a  pre- 
tense, the  readiness  to  admire  and  believe  on  one 
side,  the  hunger  to  be  admired  and  believed  in  on 
the  other,  with  a  feeling  of  some  real  loneliness  in 
each,  the  relation  between  these  two  grew  closer. 

From  the  reading  of  Chaucer  and  Spenser  it  was 
but  a  step  to  the  reading  of  authors  nearer  their 
own  day,  and  from  that  to  bits  of  his  own  compo- 
sition, explaining  them  and  even  soliciting  her  judg- 
ment. When  Nina  demurred  and  shrank  in  alarm 
from  this  test  of  her  powers,  her  unsophisticated 
judgment  was  partially  reassured  by  Roger's  tell- 
ing her  that  it  was  not  the  judgment  of  the  wise 


202  ROGER  HUNT. 

and  learned  a  writer  often  required,  so  much  as 
that  of  the  average  mind.  ""Now,  if  you  under- 
stand and  like  this  little  thing  of  mine,"  touching 
a  pile  of  manuscript  on  the  table,  "I  shall  feel 
that  the  general  reader  will  do  the  same.  Then  the 
publisher  will  take  it." 

The  lesson  hour  was  often  encroached  upon  by 
conversations  of  this  and  a  similar  nature ;  but  to 
her  mother's  eyes  Nina  had  never  seemed  to  make 
as  rapid  progress  as  now.  There  was  a  buoyancy 
in  her  manner,  and  at  the  same  time  an  earnestness 
of  purpose  she  had  not  noticed  before.  There  were 
other  ways  in  which  it  was  found  Nina  could  help 
her  teacher.  Roger  had  lately  resumed  his  studies 
in  the  line  of  Indian  relics,  in  which  the  em- 
bankments on  the  river  at  Garrison  were  so  rich; 
and  the  two  fell  into  the  habit  of  taking  long  walks 
together  to  collect  specimens,  which  it  soon  became 
Nina's  task  to  assort  and  label.  Mrs.  Clarke  no- 
ticed this  new  direction  of  her  daughter's  studies 
with  some  surprise,  but  without  criticism,  being 
gratified  at  this  evidence  of  a  taste  for  solid  instruc- 
tion. It  did  not  matter  so  much  what  particular 
studies  were  followed,  she  told  herself;  it  was  the 
general  contact  with  and  influence  of  a  mind  like 
Professor  Hunt's  she  most  desired.  She  was  get- 
ting her  wish  here. 

At  Nina's  suggestion  Estella  accompanied  them 
on  one  of  the  earliest  of  these  walking  excursions, 
but  only  once.  Things  were  growing  sadly  out  of 
joint  with  Estella,  and  she  was  rather  glad,  except 


ROGER  HUNT.  203 

for  the  dread  of  parting  from  her  mother,  that  she 
was  to  go  away  in  the  fall,  to  begin  her  university 
life  at  Monroe.  She  had  been  pleased  at  Nina's  in- 
vitation to  go  with  them,  but  she  had  not  been  ten 
minutes  in  the  company  of  her  father  and  former 
playmate  before  the  old  feelings  of  distrust,  bewil- 
derment, and  girlish  pique  seized  her  again.  Her 
father  paid  no  attention  to  her  whatever,  and  Nina's 
efforts  to  be  kind  and  include  her  in  the  conversa- 
tion made  her  resentful.  Angry  and  jealous,  in  a 
way  she  did  not  herself  understand,  she  would  not 
pretend  to  interest  herself  in  the  excursion's  object, 
seating  herself  on  the  bluff,  and  looking  moodily 
down  the  river,  letting  her  father  and  Nina  wander 
away  by  themselves.  They  were  unusually  suc- 
cessful in  their  search  that  day,  Nina  finding  an 
interesting  fragment  of  an  ancient  pipe-bowl  that 
pleased  Roger  much.  She  was  radiant  with  hap- 
piness and  the  physical  exercise  when  they  climbed 
back  to  Estella's  lonely  perch,  seating  themselves 
near  her  to  rest  and  look  over  their  spoils. 

Estella  listened  in  surprise  at  the  new  tone  in 
which  Nina  spoke  to  her  father,  as  respectful  as  the 
old,  but  confident  and  familiar.  She  even  ventured 
to  jest  and  dispute  with  him  a  little;  while  her 
father,  she  noted  with  greater  surprise,  seemed  to 
encourage  this  freedom.  She  could  not  under- 
stand it,  and  had  never  felt  more  lonely  and  forlorn. 
Her  eyes  smarted  with  the  effort  to  keep  back  the 
tears.  Nina  spoke  to  her,  but  she  could  not  an- 
swer, and  rising,  walked  away. 


204  EOGER  HUNT. 

"You  see  how  it  is,"  Roger  said  in  a  low  tone  to 
his  companion,  a  shade  creeping  over  his  face,  as 
he  glanced  in  Estella's  direction  and  then  back  at 
her:  "I  have  no  one  to  help  me  but  you." 

Nina's  heart  beat  high  with  pride  in  such  praise. 
It  did  not  occur  to  her  that  Estella  had  not  been 
well  treated.  On  the  contrary,  she  was  conscious 
of  having  made  several  attempts  to  interest  and 
include  her  in  their  talk.  As  for  Estella's  father, 
she  pitied  rather  than  blamed  him.  Remarks  of 
a  similar  nature  had  been  dropped  in  her  ears  be- 
fore this,  hinting  at  unknown  trials  borne,  solicit- 
ing sympathy.  She  was  coming  to  believe  that  her 
teacher  did  not  receive  that  kid  and  consideration 
from  those  nearest  him  which  his  commanding  mer- 
its called  for.  His  life  was  shadowed  by  something 
more  than  sickness.  Thoughts  like  these  were 
vague  and  half -formed  as  yet,  but  they  were  shap- 
ing. Young  trust  and  innocence  were  receiving 
their  first  taint,  showing  scarcely  more  than  the 
blue  bloom  of  the  grape,  and  adding  a  new  grace, 
seen  now  only  in  the  form  of  youthful  sympathy, 
the  generous  desire  to  please  and  be  of  service. 

"I  think  papa  likes  Nina  better  than  he  used 
to,"  said  Estella  to  her  mother,  shortly  after  the 
walk  to  the  river. 

"I  am  very  glad, "the  other  replied  composedly. 
"That  will  make  it  easier  for  him  to  teach  her." 

"Oh,  he  doesn't  seem  to  mind  teaching  her. 
Nina  is  helping  him  arrange  his  cabinet.  Why 
does  papa  never  ask  me  to  help  him  ?  " 


EOGER  HUNT.  205 

"Perhaps  he  did  not  ask  Nina, "said  her  mother 
suggestively,  "perhaps  she  offered."  Estella  col- 
ored. It  was  true  she  had  made  as  few  overtures 
here  as  she  had  received.  Her  father's  collection 
of  Indian  curiosities  did  not  interest  her  in  the 
least.  She  would  soon  have  wearied  of  any  care 
or  duty  in  this  direction.  She  had  neither  Nina's 
patience  nor  amiability,  but  that  did  not  prevent 
her  from  coveting  the  rewards  these  traits  gained 
in  others. 

The  lessons  were  broken  up  at  the  holidays  and 
for  a  short  time  after,  Mrs.  Clarke  taking  Nina 
with  her  on  a  visit  to  Chicago,  where  she  wished  to 
do  some  shopping,  renew  acquaintance  with  some 
old  friends,  and  enjoy  a  taste  of  the  city's  intellec- 
tual privileges.  The  season  was  at  its  height. 
Irving  and  Ellen  Terry  were  at  one  of  the  leading 
theatres,  John  Fiske  was  booked  for  a  lecture  be- 
fore a  rising  young  institute,  there  were  clubs  in- 
numerable which  stood  ready  to  open  their  doors 
to  her,  and  the  stores  were  full  of  tempting  bar- 
gains. 

Nina  received  the  news  of  this  journey  with  little 
of  a  young  girl's  usual  interest.  Her  tastes  and 
habits  were  always  quiet,  and  just  now  home  seemed 
far  more  attractive  than  any  other  place.  Her 
mother's  animated  account  of  the  sights  and  ad- 
vantages they  were  to  enjoy  tempted  neither  sense 
nor  fancy.  Reluctantly,  and  with  visible  regret, 
she  informed  her  teacher  of  her  mother's  plans. 

"Going  away!  "  he  exclaimed.      "And  what  am 


206  ROGER  HUNT. 

I  to  do,  pray?  "    He  spoke  half -playfully,  but  with 
a  serious  accent  too. 

"You  will  have  all  your  time  to  yourself  now." 
"And  you  think  I  shall  like  that?"  He  asked 
her  some  questions  about  the  trip,  its  length,  the 
time  of  starting,  etc.,  still  with  that  air  of  injured 
surprise,  and  loneliness  already  begun.  He  let  her 
see  plainly  that  he  should  miss  her  in  many  ways, 
affected  to  believe  she  was  on  her  part  glad  to  go, 
and  reproached  her  cruelty  beforehand  if  she  did 
not  return  to  her  place  as  speedily  as  possible ;  all 
this  in  a  half -paternal  tone,  that  the  girl  tried  to 
listen  to  frankly  and  unabashed,  but  which  raised 
in  her  a  faint  feeling  of  alarm,  so  that  she  wanted 
to  run  away.  She  was  beginning  to  be  afraid  of 
the  man  before  her,  but  in  a  new  way.  His  deep 
dreamful  eyes  held  the  same  magnetic  spell  for  her 
others  had  fallen  under,  his  voice  vibrated  along 
her  heart-strings,  his  strong,  compelling  presence 
filled  the  room,  and  her  thoughts  when  she  was 
away  from  him.  Words  were  spoken  that  made 
her  cheeks  burn,  yet  whose  overt  sense  was  quite 
harmless,  making  the  blame  of  any  other  seem  to 
spring  from  guilty  imagination. 

Where  the  guilt  was  she  was  too  troubled  and 
confused  to  know,  but  the  sense  of  it  was  growing. 


xrv. 

THERE  were  those  among  Roger  Hunt's  ac- 
quaintance who  believed  him  to  be  a  consummate 
actor.  Even  his  old  friend,  Kitty  Somers,  used  to 
incline  to  this  hypothesis  at  times.  This  was  be- 
cause, with  all  his  impulsiveness,  he  was  the  most 
self -observant  of  men.  Careless  as  he  often  was 
of  the  impression  he  produced,  he  nevertheless 
always  understood  it.  The  long  estrangement  be- 
tween himself  and .  Eleanor,  covered  with  an  un- 
failing courtesy  of  speech  and  manner  in  the  pres- 
.ence  of  others,  so  that  a  four  years'  inmate  in  the 
household  like  Mrs.  Saunders  never  suspected  it, 
was  the  result  of  deliberate  resolve,  never  forgot- 
ten, and  adhered  to  more  proudly  every  day.  Im- 
petuosity was  blended  with  utmost  caution.  Self- 
consciousness  was  always  uppermost,  as  it  probably 
is  with  the  most  trained  actor ;  and  gave  the  im- 
pression in  many  quarters  of  cunning  deceit. 
"Take  my  word  for  it,  Lucy, "Thomas  Clarke  had 
said  in  his  early  acquaintance  with  their  neighbor, 
repeating  the  opinion  many  times  after,  "the  man 
is  a  fraud.  He  's  the  sleekest  hypocrite  I  know." 

"Don't  speak  so  coarsely,  Thomas.  I  'm  sure 
Professor  Hunt  is  the  last  man  to  be  accused  of 
hypocrisy.  He 's  unpleasantly  honest,  I  think. 


208  ROGER  HUNT. 

He  doesn't  try  to  please  people  as  much  as  you  do, 
even." 

Her  husband  smiled  at  this,  taking  it  as  a  com- 
pliment, as  she  meant  he  should. 

"If  he  had  n't  had  the  luck  to  inherit  a  little 
money,"  he  grumbled,  continuing  the  subject,  "he 
couldn't  earn  his  salt." 

"There  are  a  great  many  excellent  people  in  the 
world  who  cannot  make  money.  It 's  vulgar,  es- 
timating people's  worth  in  dollars  and  cents." 

"Perhaps  it  is;  but  a  man  should  show  he  has 
got  something  better,  then." 

"Professor  Hunt  is  a  scholar,  a  literary  man. 
I  don't  see  why  you  are  so  prejudiced  against 
him,"  she  added  for  the  hundredth  time. 

"I  ain't  prejudiced  against  him.  He  fills  his 
place,  I  suppose.  All  I  mean  to  say  is  he  'd  rat- 
tle around  like  a  dried  pea  in  a  quart  measure  if 
he  tried  to  fill  some  other  people's." 

She  did  not  attempt  to  argue  this  point,  to  show 
how  the  misplaced  pea  might  prove  something  be- 
sides its  own  diminutiveness,  the  emptiness  of  the 
receptacle  holding  it;  but  closed  the  discussion 
with  a  repeated  expression  of  gratitude  that  so  ac- 
complished a  man  was  their  neighbor  and  Nina's 
teacher.  She  added  that  Nina  seemed  to  get  on 
with  him  better,  of  late. 

"I  guess  he  won't  hurt  Nina  much.  We  pay 
him  for  his  services.  I  'd  have  to  be  pretty  hard 
up  to  accept  favors  from  a  man  like  Hunt." 

"You  think  everything  can  be  settled  with 
money." 


ROGER  HUNT.  209 

"No,  not  everything,  Lucy,"  he  said,  drawing 
near  and  putting  his  arm,  lover-like,  about  her 
waist,  a  somewhat  snugger  armful  than  when  she 
was  a  girl.  "I  ain't  forgot  the  woman  who  showed 
she  had  some  faith  in  me  when  I  was  a  green 
youngster,  and  not  worth  a  hundred  dollars.  I 
wouldn't  trade  you  for  all  the  bonds  and  mort- 
gages." This  was  gratifying,  and  seemed  to  pre- 
sent a  favorable  opportunity  for  a  request  she  had 
expressed  before. 

"I  wish  you  'd  give  up  business  and  retire. 
We  have  more  than  money  enough  now.  Then 
we  could  all  go  to  Europe  for  two  or  three  years." 

"What  on  earth  should  I  do,  hangin'  'round 
Europe  ?  You  're  not  going  to  marry  Nina  to  some 
broken-down  count,  I  hope." 

"How  ridiculous!  I  mean  it  is  time  you  re- 
tired." 

"Not  any  Europe  for  me.  You  and  Nina  can 
go,  if  you  want  to;  I  'in  goin'  to  stay  here  in  Gar- 
rison. They  want  me  to  run  for  the  legislature 
again,  but  I  don't  know  as  I  want  to  bother  about 
it.  I  guess  I  '11  turn  it  over  to  Charlie  Perkins," 
another  moneyed  power  in  the  town.  "He  wants 
it  pretty  bad ;  and  I  suppose  it  'd  about  tickle 
Mis'  Perkins  to  death." 

Nina  was  homesick  the  moment  she  entered  the 
carriage  that  was  to  take  her  to  the  station.  The 
train  whirled  her  swiftly  along,  past  snow-covered 
ields  and  long  stretches  of  leafless  forests ;  but  her 
thoughts  flew  backward,  and  she  scarcely  noted  her 


210  EOGER  HUNT. 

surroundings.  The  sights  and  sounds  of  the  great 
city,  when  she  reached  it,  fell  on  senses  muffled  in 
remote  thoughts.  She  followed  her  mother  about 
like  one  in  a  dream.  Forbidden  thoughts,  vague 
images  and  desires  that  both  uplifted  and  shamed 
her,  filled  her  mind. 

Roger  Hunt  had  asked  her  to  write  to  him,  but 
some  monitor  within  had  forbidden  it,  and  it  may 
be  taken  as  a  sign  of  the  hopeful  struggle  going  on 
in  the  young  girl's  breast  that  she  had  so  far  obeyed 
the  latter.  One  day  she  returned  to  the  hotel  at 
which  they  were  stopping  to  find  a  letter  from  him. 
—  Mrs.  Clarke  had  friends  in  the  city,  but  never 
made  a  convenience  of  them.  —  Was  her  guardian 
angel  asleep,  or  only  the  more  forbearing,  that 
she  who  had  scarcely  been  from  her  mother's  side 
should  at  this  moment  happen  to  be  alone  and  un- 
observed? Nina's  nature  was  as  childlike  in  some 
things  at  nineteen  as  at  nine.  She  had  never  re- 
ceived a  letter  before  she  dared  not  show  her 
mother,  as  something  told  her  she  must  not  this 
one,  before  she  opened  it. 

Its  length  alone  would  have  excited  her  mother's 
wonder,  though  it  dealt  for  the  most  part  with  im- 
personal topics,  discussed  in  a  tone  of  plaintive 
melancholy  Nina  was  becoming  familiar  with.  It 
also  contained  a  list  of  books  the  writer  asked  her 
to  purchase  for  him,  and  which  might  be  made  to 
serve  as  the  letter's  ostensible  object.  Attached 
was  a  postscript  of  different  tenor.  It  ran  thus : 

.   .   .   "Out  doors  it  has  done  nothing  but  rain 


ROGER  HUNT.  211 

since  you  went  away;  the  sun  has  not  looked 
through  the  study-window  once,  and  he  is  right, 
there  is  nothing  here  worth  looking  for.  A  certain 
chair  by  the  table  looks  very  empty.  Old  Chaucer 
has  whispered  to  me  that  he  is  as  lonely  as  some- 
body else  is,  and  has  been  punished  for  his  pre- 
sumption by  being  put  back  on  the  shelf." 

Nina  crumpled  the  letter  in  her  hand  and  sank 
trembling  into  a  chair.  She  had  gone  to  her  room, 
and  locked  the  door.  Pride  and  shame  struggled 
fiercely  in  the  young  girl's  bosom  ;  her  mind  was 
in  a  whirl.  Had  mere  friendship  the  power  to 
agitate  her  thus,  enslave  fancy,  arouse  accusing 
conscience?  As  she  sat  there  lost  in  frightened 
and  remorseful  thoughts,  she  heard  her  mother  enter 
the  outer  room,  approach  and  try  the  door,  then 
call  to  her  in  surprised  tones :  — 

"Nina,  Nina! — are  you  there?  What  in  the 
world  have  you  locked  the  door  f pr  ?  " 

Rising  and  thrusting  the  letter  in  her  pocket, 
she  opened  the  door. 

"What  is  the  matter?"  Mrs.  Clarke  asked,  in  a 
rather  anxious  tone,  as  she  noted  her  daughter's 
pale  and  worn  appearance. 

"Nothing;  I  —  I  was  tired  a  little,  and  thought 
I  would  lie  down." 

"What  have  you  been  crying  about?" 

"I  have  not  been  crying,"  was  the  quiet  reply, 
truthfully  spoken.  Perhaps  it  was  the  effort  to 
keep  back  the  tears  gave  her  eyes  that  bright 
strained  look.  Mrs.  Clarke  gave  utterance  to  a 
discontented  exclamation :  — 


212  ROGER  HUNT. 

"Lie  down,  of  course,  if  you  are  tired,  but  I 
don't  understand  why  you  give  out  so  easily,  —  a 
great,  strong  girl  like  you!  You  can't  stand  half 
as  much  as  I  can,  now.  I  don't  believe  you  are 
enjoying  your  visit  at  all." 

"Oh  yes,  I  am.  But  you  know  I  never  did  like 
a  large  city  very  much.  It  tires  and  confuses  me 
so — especially  Chicago."  Her  voice  took  on  a 
tone  of  slight  querulousness  at  the  end. 

"Well,  you  're  very  different  from  me,  then. 
There 's  no  place  in  the  world  like  Chicago,  I 
think,  not  even  New  York.  It  puts  new  life  into 
me  every  time  I  come  here.  I  can't  see  how  your 
father  ever  happened  to  pass  it  by  and  locate  in 
a  place  like  Garrison.  We  might  just  as  well  be 
living  here  as  not,  in  one  of  those  handsome  resi- 
dences on  the  Lake  shore." 

"I  'm  very  glad  he  did  not,"  said  Nina,  with  a 
little  obstinacy.  "I  like  Garrison  much  better." 
She  had  removed  her  hat  and  wrap,  and  stood  be- 
fore the  glass  putting  her  hair  to  rights. 

"I  thought  you  were  going  to  lie  down,"  said 
her  mother. 

"I  think  I  won't  now,  it  is  so  near  supper-time." 

"You  must  change  your  dress.  You  know  we 
are  going  to  see  Irving  to-night  in  'The  Bells.'  ' 

"Why  isn't  this  good  enough?"  the  girl  asked 
discontentedly;  "we  shan't  see  any  one  we  know." 

"What  difference  does  that  make?  You  should 
wear  what  is  suitable.  What  is  the  use  of  bringing 
a  trunkful  of  dresses,  if  you  are  always  going  to 


ROGER  HUNT. 


213 


wear  the  same  one  ?  Put  on  your  garnet  silk,  and 
get  out  your  white  hat  and  some  light  gloves." 

Nina  would  have  much  preferred  her  black  silk 
and  other  things  to  match,  but  she  was  allowed  lit- 
tle voice  in  such  matters. 

It  was  the  cause  of  much  maternal  pride  to 
Mrs.  Clarke,  when  she  and  Nina  took  their  seats 
in  the  front  row  of  the  parquet  circle,  that  her 
daughter  was  as  handsome  and  had  as  city -bred  a 
look  as  any  of  the  other  young  women  present. 
She  looked  about  her  with  a  gratified  and  expec- 
tant air,  though  as  Nina  had  said,  they  knew  no 
one.  But  Mrs.  Clarke  liked  to  feel  herself  a  part 
of  so  brilliant  a  gathering  as  this,  picturing  in 
fancy  the  important  role  she  might  be  play  ing  here 
had  destiny  treated  her  just  a  little  differently. 
Nina's  mind  was  engrossed  with  importunate 
thoughts  arising  from  the  remembrance  of  the  let- 
ter, which  she  seemed  to  feel  burning  in  her  pocket, 
where  she  still  carried  it  for  safety's  sake,  trying 
to  reach  a  determination  to  destroy  it. 

She  gave  but  mechanical  interest  to  the  play  in 
the  opening  scenes,  not  catching  the  plot.  Her 
mother  had  seized  it  at  once  and  turned  to  her  ani- 
matedly when  the  curtain  dropped, 

"Isn't  it  wonderful !  I  knew  the  moment  he 
came  on  the  stage  it  was  he  who  had  committed 
the  murder.  I  hadn't  read  the  plot  either.  You 
could  tell  it  by  the  scared,  trembling  look  he  had, 
even  though  he  was  in  his  own  house.  Wonder- 
ful ! "  she  repeated. 


214  ROGER  HUNT. 

"Who?"  Nina  asked,  uncoinprehendingly. 
"What  murder?" 

"Why,  Irving,  of  course;  'Mathias'  I  mean. 
Don't  you  understand?  " 

"I  never  can  understand  the  first  act  of  a  play," 
was  the  rather  irritated  reply. 

"They  were  talking  about  a  murder  that  had 
been  committed  years  before.  This  is  the  anniver- 
sary. Mathias  is  the  murderer,  but  no  one  sus- 
pects it.  He  did  it  for  the  money,  and  has  kept  the 
secret  all  this  time." 

Nina  understood  now,  and  when  the  curtain 
again  rose  watched  the  movement  of  the  play  with 
new  interest.  As  it  proceeded,  and  she  began  to 
comprehend  the  struggle  of  tortured  conscience  in 
Mathias,  this  interest  became  painfully  intense. 
During  the  mesmerizing  scene  she  forgot  her  sur- 
roundings entirely,  leaning  forward  in  her  seat, 
with  shortened  breath,  her  face  paling  and  flush- 
ing, her  eyes  fixed  intently  on  the  great  actor.  The 
rest  of  the  audience  were  nearly  as  spellbound  as 
she,  but  two  or  three  who  sat  near  noticed  her, 
looking  at  her  curiously  and  smiling.  Her  mother 
pressed  her  foot  against  hers  with  a  warning  touch, 
and  Nina  started  guiltily  and  fell  back  in  her  seat. 

Mrs.  Clarke  was  enthusiastic  over  the  evening's 
performance.  "The  most  wonderful  piece  of  act- 
ing I  ever  saw,"  she  exclaimed,  as  they  drove  back 
to  the  hotel. 

"Acting!  "  Nina  repeated,  half  under  her  breath. 
"It  did  not  seem  like  acting." 


ROGER  HUNT.  215 

Mrs.  Clarke  laughed. 

"We  must  see  him  Saturday  in  'Much  Ado.' 
They  say  he  's  almost  as  good  in  comedy.  Then 
we  can  see  Terry  too."  But  Nina  could  not  think 
of  the  actor  in  his  own  person,  and  cared  nothing 
for  his  reputation  in  comedy.  It  was  the  image 
of  the  sin-stricken  Mathias  that  still  held  her ;  she 
was  "still  in  the  thrall  of  those  terrible  closing 
scenes.  Oh,  the  dreadful  weight  imposed  on  the 
heart  by  a  guilty  secret !  That  was  the  play's  les- 
son to  Nina.  Does  this  extreme  application  of  her 
text  excite  a  smile?  Let  it  be  remembered  that 
the  soul's  strength  is  better  proved  by  reactive 
bounds  backward  from  temptation  than  by  any 
easy,  unhindered  ascent  towards  goodness.  Nina's 
trouble  was  the  greater  that  no  one  could  help 
her  bear  it.  She  must  fight  her  battle  alone,  as 
the  soul's  real  battles  are  always  fought.  She 
felt  the  strength  to  fight  now.  Alone  in  her  room 
she  drew  out  the  letter  and  tore  it  to  fragments, 
then  threw  them  into  the  grate  and  watched  them 
smoulder  slowly  into  ashes  on  the  dying  coals.  She 
drew  a  long  breath,  that  ended  in  a  sob.  She  was 
very  tired,  worn  out  with  fatigue  and  excitement. 
The  play  still  filled  her  mind,  and  kept  her  awake 
until  nearly  morning,  but  to  strengthen  and  exalt 
now,  rather  than  alarm  and  crucify.  When  she 
rose  in  the  morning  she  had  reached  a  decision. 
Her  mother  would  combat  it,  she  knew,  but  she 
felt  able  to  resist  her  mother. 

It  was   with    reluctance    that    she   made    ready 


216  ROGER  HUNT. 

to  attend  the  matinee  on  Saturday,  and  she  was 
full  of  regrets  afterward.  Nina's  serious  nature, 
doubly  in  earnest  just  now,  did  not  take  kindly  to 
the  comic  side  of  things  ever;  and  to  her  it  was  a 
simple  travesty,  very  painful  and  not  at  all  amus- 
ing, to  see  "Mathias,"  as  she  still  called  him,  for 
the  actor's  make-up  disguised  him  here  as  little  as 
before,  dressed  in  a  slashed  tunic  of  blue  silk,  en- 
gaged in  foolish  love-making  with  Beatrice.  The 
glory  of  his  first  appearance,  the  almost  religious 
halo  with  which  she  had  invested  him  in  grateful 
imagination  was  quite  destroyed.  It  was  a  very 
creditable  performance,  she  supposed.  Her  mother 
had  been  highly  amused,  and  talked  enthusiasti- 
cally of  both  the  accomplished  actors,  but  Nina 
felt  it  would  have  been  better  if  she  had  seen 
the  first  only  once.  Not  that  her  resolve  was  les- 
sened; she  remembered  and  repeated  it  to  herself 
many  times  a  day.  It  began  to  look  more  difficult, 
she  did  not  feel  quite  so  strong  as  at  first,  still  she 
told  herself  she  meant  to  execute  it. 

Mrs.  Clarke  looked  for  a  call  from  her  neighbor 
the  Sunday  after  their  return,  but  he  did  not  come. 
Monday  was  lesson-day,  but  Nina,  keeping  herself 
.occupied  with  small  household  tasks,  let  the  hour 
pass,  apparently  without  notice,  and  was  found  by 
her  mother  in  the  sewing-room  upstairs. 

"I  thought  you  had  gone  for  your  lesson,"  she 
said  in  a  surprised  tone.  "It  is  half  past  ten. 
You  must  go  at  once.  You  know  how  it  annoys 
Professor  Hunt  when  you  are  late."  Nina  made 


ROGER  HUNT.  217 

no  movement  to  obey.  She  was  not  afraid  of  an- 
noying Professor  Hunt.  She  turned  and  looked  at 
her  mother;  the  color  faded  from  her  cheeks,  and 
she  trembled :  — 

"Mamma,  I  don't  want,  I  mean  —  don't  you 
think  —  Need  I  take  lessons  any  more?  " 

There  was  an  accent  of  pitiful  entreaty  in  her 
words,  had  there  been  ears  to  hear.  Her  mother 
looked  at  her  with  a  displeased  face. 

"Nina,  you  try  me  out  of  all  patience!  I  hoped 
you  wouldn't  disappoint  me  again.  All  your  life 
I  have  had  to  urge  you  to  study.  I  am  ashamed 
to  think  how  far  you  are  behind  other  girls  of  your 
age.  Lately  you  have  done  better,  and  I  was  be- 
ginning to  hope  you  cared  a  little." 

"I  do  care,  mamma,"  speaking  with  difficulty. 
"I  care  very  much.  It  isn't  that.  I  will  go  on 
by  myself." 

"How  can  you  go  on  by  yourself?  That  is  non- 
sense! You  would  get  tired  of  it,  as  you  did  of 
your  music." 

"I  will  begin  my  music  again,  mamma,  and  prac- 
tice faithfully.  I  will  do  anything  you  wish,  if  — 
if  only  "  —  She  could  not  go  on. 

"I  don't  want  you  to  go  on  with  your  music. 
You  've  no  talent  for  it,"  her  mother  said  bluntly. 

"I  have  no  talent  for  books,  either,"  was  the 
humble  reply. 

"That  is  foolishness.  Mercy  knows  I  don't  ex- 
pect much  of  you,  Nina,  but  I  should  think  you 
would  have  a  little  pride.  You  needn't  think  be- 


218  ROGER  HUNT. 

cause  your  father  is  rich  and  you  are  good-look- 

ing"- 

"Mamma!  "  exclaimed  the  girl  in  hurt  rebuke  of 
words  flung  in  her  face  like  a  taunt. 

"A  girl  needs  something  besides  money  and  a 
pretty  face,  in  these  days,"  her  mother  finished. 
Nina  laid  down  the  small  feather  duster  she  had 
been  feigning  occupation  with,  and  looked  at  her 
mother ;  the  few  inches  she  had  gained  over  her  in 
height  seemed  suddenly  doubled.  Mrs.  Clarke  felt 
a  little  uncomfortable. 

"What  do  you  want  to  give  up  your  lessons 
for?"  she  asked  querulously.  "Is  Professor 
Hunt  cross  with  you?" 

"No;  he  is  very  good  to  me."  Already  Nina's 
heart  had  taken  swift  flight  to  the  little  study, 
a  quarter  of  a  mile  distant,  away  from  this  hard, 
ambitious  mother.  He  was  awaiting  her  there  now, 
she  thought,  wondering  at  her  absence,  —  he  who 
never  sneered  and  mocked  at  her  as  her  mother 
did.  The  times  when  he  had  done  this  seemed  as 
far  off  as  the  period  of  her  dolls  and  skipping- 
ropes. 

"Well,  I  know  he  can  be  disagreeable  enough 
when  he  chooses,"  her  mother  went  on  in  more 
mollified  tone,  "and  I  know  he  hates  teaching. 
That  ought  to  make  you  appreciate  your  privi- 
leges. I  can't  bear  to  have  you  disappoint  me  so, 
Nina." 

"  I  disappoint  you  a  great  deal,  I  know,  mamma ; 
I  always  have,  but  I  will  try  not  to  any  more.  I 


EOGEE  HUNT.  219 

will  do  whatever  you  wish."  She  went  out  of  the 
room.  Her  mother  looked  after  her  with  a  baffled 
expression.  Soon  she  came  downstairs,  dressed 
to  go  out,  and  left  the  house  without  speaking. 
Mrs.  Clarke  sighed  when  she  heard  the  door  close. 
She  loved  her  daughter  according  to  the  love  a  na- 
ture like  hers  had  to  bestow.  For  a  mother  whose 
expectations  were  of  so  just  and  reasonable  an 
order,  she  suffered  a  good  many  trials,  she  thought. 

Nina  walked  swiftly  down  the  slight  decline  of 
the  street  that  led  to  the  Hunt  cottage.  Her  heart 
beat  fast  with  double  excitement,  the  hurt,  mingled 
with  some  anger,  given  by  her  mother,  and  the 
wish  to  reach  her  destination.  She  now  longed 
to  see  Mr.  Hunt  again.  Her  heart  burned  with 
a  sense  of  injustice,  then  glowed  with  happier 
warmth  as  she  thought  of  the  welcoming  look  and 
smile  awaiting  her.  How  could  she  be  wholly 
stupid  and  commonplace,  if  a  man  like  Mr.  Hunt 
cared  for  her?  And  he  did  care  for  her!  Just 
now  she  exulted  in  the  thought.  She  threw  her 
fears  to  the  winds.  The  sense  of  injury  and  desire 
for  self -justification  bore  down  every  other  feeling. 

With  cheeks  glowing  from  contact  with  the  cold 
air,  and  eyes  alight  with  expectation,  she  opened 
the  study  door  and  stood  a  moment  on  the  thresh- 
old. Roger,  who  had  been  moving  impatiently 
about  the  room,  was  at  the  farther  end.  He  turned 
quickly  at  the  sound  of  her  entrance,  but  did  not 
move  to  meet  her,  standing  in  his  place  and  look- 
ing at  her  reproachfully.  But  Nina  seemed  not 


220  ROGER  HUNT. 

to  fear  the  reproach.  Her  heart  leaped  at  the 
thought  that  he  had  been  impatiently  waiting  for 
her.  For  a  few  seconds'  space,  she,  too,  kept  her 
place,,  just  inside  the  door,  her  eyes  returning  the 
full,  deep  look  in  his.  Then  she  moved  towards 
him. 

"I  am  late,"  she  said,  and  unclasped  her  cloak. 

"On  our  first  day,  too,"  Roger  said  accusingly. 

"I  —  I'm  sorry,"  she  replied.  "It's  too  late 
for  a  lesson  now,  but "  —  She  did  not  know  how 
to  finish,  and  throwing  back  her  cloak,  seated  her- 
self in  her  usual  place. 

Roger  came  slowly  towards  her.  "Are n't  we 
going  to  shake  hands?  "he  asked.  She  laughed, 
colored,  and  gave  him  her  hand,  but  this  more  for- 
mal greeting  seemed  superfluous. 

"How  natural  everything  looks!"  said  Nina, 
glancing  about  the  room,  and  feeling  the  necessity 
of  saying  something.  He  let  his  glance  follow, 
then  return  to  rest  on  her. 

"Yes  — now." 

He  seated  himself  opposite  her,  and  a  short 
silence  ensued. 

"Why  did  you  not  answer  my  letter?"  Roger 
asked  at  length. 

She  blushed  and  looked  confused. 

"Were  you  displeased  with  me  for  writing?" 

"Displeased!"  she  answered,  collecting  herself . 
"  Why  should  I  be  displeased  ?  It  was  very  good 
in  you  to  take  the  trouble." 

She  then  added  some  remark  about  being  busy, 


ROGER  HUNT.  221 

etc.  "Mamma  kept  me  running  about  so,"  she 
ended  with  a  childish  accent. 

"You  don't  like  running  about,  then?  " 

"I  detest  it."1  There  was  a  manifestation  of 
uncommon  energy  in  this  speech,  which  seemed  to 
amuse  her  listener. 

"Then  you're  not  sorry  to  get  back  to  Garri- 
son?" 

"  Sorry  ?  I  am  glad.  I  should  like  never  to  go 
away  again." 

"That's  good.  Tell  me  now  what  interested 
you  most  in  the  city." 

"What  interested  me  most?"  she  repeated  me- 
chanically. She  looked  at  him  absently  a  moment, 
realling  the  main  events  of  her  trip.  "Oh," 
drawing  a  deep  breath,  "it  was  Irving's  'Bells.' ' 

"  Irving's  bells  ?  "  he  repeated  in  a  mystified  tone. 
He  seldom  read  the  papers,  and  if  he  had  heard  of 
the  English  actor's  visit  to  this  country,  had  im- 
mediately forgotten  it. 

In  a  few  words  Nina  described  the  play.  Now 
she  was  on  the  subject,  she  was  glad  to  talk  it  over 
with  him,  present  all  its  difficulties  for  his  solution. 
Roger  listened,  but  plainly  with  more  interest  in 
the  speaker  than  her  narrative. 

"A  strange  choice  of  subject,"  he  said,  when 
she  paused.  "  One  of  those  pieces  of  morbid  char- 
acter study  the  stage  is  so  fond  of  presenting  now- 
adays. If  I  had  been  there,  I  could  have  proved 
to  you  that  you  cared  nothing  about  it." 

"Oh,  it  was  not  the  play,"  exclaimed  Nina;   "it 


222  ROGER  HUNT. 

was  the  acting.  He  made  you  feel  it  all  so,  the 
fear,  and  the  awful  remorse  he  lived  in,  day  after 
day,  when  every  one  thought  him  the  most  happy 
and  honored  of  men." 

Roger  smiled  at  her  enthusiasm. 

"I  could  not  get  rid  of  it  for  days,  it  took 
hold  of  me  so.  I  did  not  sleep  all  night. "  Here  a 
vivid  blush  swept  across  her  face,  as  she  recalled 
other  and  more  immediate  causes  of  this  wakeful- 
ness. 

"Not  sleep  all  night!  "cried  Roger.  "That 
proves  the  thorough  badness  of  the  play,  at  once. 
True  art  never  has  a  disturbing  effect;  its  mission 
is  to  soothe  and  please.  Can  you  imagine  any  of 
the  old  Greeks  lying  awake  after  a  representation 
of  the  Alkestis  ?  " 

Nina  smiled,  pleased  but  embarrassed.  The 
habit  her  teacher  had  lately  fallen  into  of  assuming 
her  equal  understanding  of  allusions  of  this  kind, 
drawn  from  the  remote  and  abstruse  studies  he  so 
delighted  in,  was  part  of  the  growing  wonder  and 
happiness  of  this  new  relation.  No  wonder  Nina 
found  compensation  for  her  mother's  slighting 
words  in  the»treatment  she  received  here. 

Had  she  been  as  well  informed  as  her  compan- 
ion's question  implied,  she  might  have  questioned 
him  in  turn,  on  the  probable  effect  of  the  perform- 
ance of  the  Medea  and  the  Choephorij  but  as  it 
was,  Roger  kept  the  talk  in  his  own  hands. 

"Remorse  is  as  unhealthy  a  sentiment  as  it  is 
unreasonable,"  he  went  on,  now  on  one  of  his  fa- 


ROGER  HUNT.  223 

vorite  themes.     "  The  man  who  spends  all  his  life 
regretting  something  is  an  intellectual  weakling." 

"  Yet  if  one  has  committed  a  great  wrong  —  a 
crime?  " 

"He  was  guilty  of  murder,  you  say?"  Roger 
asked,  raising  his  eyes  meditatively  to  the  ceiling, 
as  if  debating  the  degree  in  which  such  an  action 
could  command  honest  regret. 

"A  terrible  murder.  It  is  horrible  even  to 
think  of  it,"  she  replied,  with  a  shudder. 

"For  all  that  he  should  have  stood  by  his  deed. 
That  shocks  you,"  he  added,  as  he  noted  her  look 
of  surprise.  "He  should  either  have  acknowledged 
it  at  once,  and  accepted  the  consequences,"  — 

"Oh,  yes,  I  understand  you  now,"  she  inter- 
rupted, with  relief. 

"Or,"  without  heeding  her,    "he    should   have 
buried  it  so  deep  below  all  consciousness  and  mem- . 
ory  that  even  sleep  would  have  no  power  to  resur- 
rect it." 

Her  look  changed  to  one  of  pained  perplexity. 
She  felt  the  force  of  this  kind  of  reasoning,  but  it 
did  not  satisfy  her. 

"Irresolution  is  a  vice  in  itself,"  Roger  went  on. 
"  A  man  had  better  be  strongly  in  the  wrong  than 
weakly  in  the  right.  That  is  one  of  the  lessons 
your  Browning  teaches,"  he  added  with  a  smile. 

"He  isn't  my  Browning;  he  is  mamma's." 

"Very  well;  then  she  can't  object  to  my  reading 
you  something  of  his.  I  promised  to  read  you 
something,  some  time."  He  rose  and  took  a  vol- 


224  ROGER  HUNT. 

time  from  a  shelf  in  the  "Poet's  Corner."  "Let 
us  see  now,  if  you  can  understand  it,"  he  said, 
reseating  himself.  "You  can't  often  understand 
Browning  the  first  time,  you  know.  That 's  his 
great  merit.  That 's  the  reason  he  has  crowded 
Shelley  and  Keats  off  the  shelves.  Listen,  now," 
and  he  began  to  read  "The  Statue  and  the  Bust." 

His  reading  made  the  poem  as  clear  as  anyone's 
could;  and  Nina  caught  the  meaning  fairly  well, 
but  was  evidently  troubled  over  it. 

"Now  tell  me  what  it  is  all  about,"  Roger  said, 
when  he  had  finished,  closing  the  book  and  laying 
it  one  side.  "GiAre  me  the  outline  of  the  poem." 
Nina  flushed  and  demurred,  but  he  insisted. 

"Well,"  she  began  hesitatingly,  "the  bust  rep- 
resented the  lady  whose  husband  had  kept  her  im- 
prisoned in  the  castle  of  the  window  where  it 
stood."  She  stopped,  and  they  both  laughed. 

"Window  of  the  castle,"  she  corrected  herself. 

'"Whose  husband  had  kept  her  imprisoned  in  the 
window  of  the  castle,'  "  Roger  repeated.  "Go  on. 
We  're  getting  along  famously.  Soon  the  inter- 
pretation will  be  as  obscure  as  the  poem.  Then 
we  shall  have  proved  ourselves  true  disciples." 

"I  told  you  I  could  not  do  it,"  leaning  back  in 
her  chair  with  the  least  little  pout.  Once  words 
like  these  would  have  sent  her  home  in  tears,  but 
now  their  force  was  quite  dispelled. 

"And  the  statue,  what  did  that  represent?"  he 
pressed  her. 

"  Oh,  he  was  a  soldier,  and  an  officer  in  her  hus- 


ROGER  HUNT.  225 

band's  service;  and  they  —  they  cared  for  each 
other,"  with  lowered  eyes,  and  fingering  the  beaded 
ornament  on  her  sleeve  nervously. 

"He  was  her  lover,  you  mean?  " 

"But  they  never  saw  each  other  till  the  day  of 
her  marriage,"  she  said  hastily,  groping  about  in 
her  mind  for  some  excuse. 

"Yet  they  loved  each  other.  What  next?" 
keeping  watchful  eyes  upon  her. 

"And  —  and  they  planned  to  escape,  but  things 
kept  happening,  so  they  never  did ;  and  every  day 
the  lady  would  look  out  of  the  window  to  see  him 
ride  past,  and  he  would  look  up  to  see  her.  They 
should  not  have  done  that,  "she  added  in  comment. 

"Why?" 

Nina  looked  at  him  in  surprise.  But  it  was  not 
because  he  meant  to  dispute  such  a  point  he  ques- 
tioned her,  only  to  see  if  her  own  thoughts  were 
clear,  she  reflected. 

"  They  should  have  gone  far  away,  and  resolved 
never  to  see  each  other  again,"  in  a  little  tremor. 

"Quite  correct,"  said  Roger,  in  a  tone  she  did 
not  quite  understand.  "  But  would  that  have  de- 
stroyed the  wish  to  see  each  other?" 

"I  —  I  suppose  not,  sir." 

"And  is  it  not  the  wish  to  do  a  wrong  thing,  if 
you  call  this  wrong,  that  affects  the  character  as 
much  as  the  action  itself?" 

"  Do  you  mean  it  would  have  been  as  wrong  for 
Mathias  merely  to  have  wished  he  had  the  other 
man's  money  to  pay  off  his  debt  with,  as  to  have 
murdered  him?" 


226  ROGER  HUNT. 

"  Who  was  Mathias  ?  "  Roger  asked,  with  a  slight 
frown. 

"The  man  in  the  play." 

"Oh,  yes.  It  would  n't  have  been  as  hard  on 
the  murdered  man,  perhaps,  but  the  effect  on  the 
character  of  Mathias  would  have  been  the  same  if 
he  kept  revolving  the  thing  in  his  mind  " 

"Oh,  sir,  but  he  would  not.  He  was  a  good 
man,  only  he  was  dreadfully  tempted.  But  he  would 
have  mastered  and  killed  his  wish,  I  am  very  sure." 

"Those  two  in  the  poem  did  not;  they  neither 
overcame  their  wish  nor  executed  it.  They  should 
have  done  one  thing  or  the  other ;  because  they 
did  not  they  were  properly  punished  by  being 
turned  into  stone.  Browning  thinks  so,  too,"  and 
he  quoted  the  line  about  "the  unlit  lamp,  and  the 
ungirt  loin."  "The  critics  have  made  a  fine  fuss 
about  this  poem.  They  call  it  immoral ;  but  it  is 
the  hesitating  lovers  who  were  immoral.  They  had 
better  have  carried  out  their  wish  a  hundred  times." 

"But  that  would  have  been  a  crime,"  said  the 
girl,  in  a  low,  frightened  tone.  Roger  turned  his 
full,  lucent  gaze  on  her. 

"What  is  a  crime?  "  he  asked.  She  looked  sur- 
prised, reflected  a  moment,  then  slowly  shook  her 
head. 

"  Simply  a  term  of  classification ;  a  legal  means 
of  separating  one  class  of  actions  from  another." 

"Wrong  actions?  "  Nina  interposed. 

"Well,  wrong  actions,  then,"  throwing  his  head 
back  impatiently.  "But  you  must  remember  the 


ROGER  HUNT.  227 

term  is  often  applied  in  the  most  arbitrary  fashion. 
Many  a  man's  so-called  'crime,'  for  which  he  is 
paying  the  penalty  in  a  prison -cell,  is  of  far  less 
importance  than  the  unlabeled  rascality  of  hun- 
dreds of  others  who  live  in  peace  and  safety  out- 
side; and  on  the  other  hand,"  he  paused  and  drew 
a  deep  breath,  "many  another  man  may  have  been 
accused  of  committing  a  crime  against  society, 
when  his  action  in  no  way  concerned  that  precious 
humbug,  and  which  sprung  from  the  noblest  and 
purest  motives." 

"Oh,  yes,  I  know  that,"  said  Nina,  sympatheti- 
cally.    She  supposed  her  teacher  was  speaking  of 
cases  like  Galileo  and  John  Huss,  and  other  vic- 
tims of  advanced  opinion,   whom  the  world  had 
punished  with  rack  and  thumbscrew.      She  knew 
his  sympathy  for  every  form  of  social  oppression. 
Roger  was  about  to  continue,   when  the  little 
clock  on  the  mantel  struck,  sounding  the  half  hour 
-after  twelve.     Nina  started  guiltily  to  her  feet. 
"I  have  stayed  too  long!  " 
"I  am  sorry  you  have  found  it  so." 
"Oh,"    she   replied  with  a  deprecating  glance 
and  blush,  "I  only  meant  I  did  not  know  it  was 
so  late."     She  picked  up  her  gloves,  and  turned 
towards  the  door,  where  she  bade  him  good-by, 
meeting  again  a  glance  she  could  not  support,  and 
passed  outside.      She  had  spent  nearly  two  hours 
in  the  little  study,  but  it  had  not  seemed  an  hour. 
Not  a  word  had  been  said  of  the  lesson,  an  omission 
both  had  noticed,  but  neither  had  spoken  of. 


XV. 

ROGER  had  intended  to  send  Estella  to  the  uni- 
versity the  coming  September,  but  after  correspon- 
dence with  the  authorities  at  Monroe  he  decided  to 
have  her  go  six  months  earlier,  in  order  to  profit  by 
certain  advantages  in  the  preparatory  course  which 
he  could  not  offer  her  at  home. 

This  decision,  when  it  was  announced  to  Estella 
and  her  mother,  gave  a  little  shock  of  surprise  to 
each,  but  Eleanor  bore  it  more  quietly  than  Roger 
had  anticipated.  Estella  was  filled  with  conster- 
nation at  the  prospect  so  suddenly  opened  before 
her.  The  thought  of  leaving  home,  when  it  was 
still  far  off,  had  aroused  a  feeling  of  girlish  expec- 
tation, but  now  when  it  was  so  near,  imagination  had 
no  chance  to  play  with  it,  and  only  the  painful  real- 
ity was  left.  She  must  leave  her  mother,  and  live 
alone  among  strangers !  She  had  looked  to  support 
her  mother  when  the  time  of  parting  came,  but  it 
was  rather  her  mother  who  cheered  and  strength- 
ened her.  Apart  from  the  hardship  to  herself, 
Estella  had  a  sense  of  disloyalty  in  leaving  her,  a 
feeling  that  she  was  deserting  one  in  great  need. 

Estella  had  grown  more  sensitive  to  the  home 
atmosphere  of  late,  and  an  undefined  trouble  filled 
her  breast  whenever  she  thought  of  her  father. 


ROGER  HUNT.  229 

She  had  always  known  her  father  was  peculiar,  but 
when  younger  this  peculiarity  had  only  impressed 
her  as  superiority,  acknowledged  even  by  those 
who  did  not  seem  to  like  him;  but  later  it  had 
struck  her  at  times  as  manifest  weakness,  —  eccen- 
tricity. She  had  been  put  in  a  position  once  or 
twice  where  she  was  forced  to  see  him  not  simply 
as  different  from  other  people,  but  ludicrously  dif- 
ferent. It  had  never  been  a  hardship  to  her  that 
she  could  not  love  her  father  with  that  demonstra- 
tive fondness  other  girls  displayed;  but  it  would 
go  hard  with  her  if  she  were  ever  to  lose  her  re- 
spect for  him. 

As  for  Eleanor,  the  trial  of  parting  was  as  se- 
vere as  she  had  ever  anticipated;  she  suffered  be- 
forehand all  the  loneliness  of  the  days  that  were  to 
come,  but  at  the  same  time  she  was  glad  that  Estella 
was  going,  that  she  was  to  leave  home  for  a  time. 
Some  of  these  reasons  were  newly  discovered  to 
herself. 

The  relation  between  Roger  and  their  child  had 
always  been  a  subject  of  engrossing  anxiety  to  Elea- 
nor. She  desired  above  everything  to  preserve  the 
instinct  of  filial  respect  in  Estella.  In  mental  quick- 
ness and  self -dependence  she  was  her  father's  child. 
She  was  the  only  member  of  the  household,  and  so 
far  as  her  mother  knew  in  their  circle  of  acquaint- 
ance, who  had  the  courage  openly  to  oppose  her 
father  and  hold  her  own  against  him ;  but  she  had 
done  this  as  yet  only  in  ways  that  evinced  youthful 
daring,  and  which  amused  more  than  displeased 


230  ROGER  HUNT. 

him.  The  subservience  he  received  in  other  quar- 
ters he  cared  little  for  here;  said  he  had  always 
encouraged  natural  behavior  in  her,  such  as  he  him- 
self practiced.  But  Eleanor  knew  there  were  lim- 
its to  the  opposition  he  would  suffer,  here  as  else- 
where. The  possibility  that  his  daughter  would 
ever  become  his  critic,  in  any  serious  way,  never 
crossed  his  mind,  but  it  had  crossed  Eleanor's. 
Wifely  feeling  was  the  main  motive  of  conduct  with 
her  still,  notwithstanding  the  discouragement  it  had 
received.  She  could  bear  it  better  to  have  Estella 
fail  in  duty  towards  herself  than  towards  her  father ; 
and  —  strange  paradox  —  if  the  right  sentiment 
could  be  preserved  only  by  separating  them,  she 
could  willingly,  almost  gladly,  bear  the  pain  of  it 
for  herself. 

An  incident  had  occurred  a  week  or  two  before 
Estella' s  departure  from  home  had  been  deter- 
mined, which  partly  explains  this  state  of  mind. 

One  spring-like  morning  late  in  March,  Eleanor 
awoke,  feeling  stronger  than  she  had  for  a  long 
time.  The  sunshine  flooding  the  room  had  an  al- 
most summer  warmth  in  it,  and  new  life  seemed  to 
pulsate  through  her  veins.  She  rose  from  her  bed 
and  with  the  nurse's  assistance  dressed.  The  effort 
tired  her  less  than  she  had  thought  it  would,  and 
she  longed  to  test  her  strength  in  some  new  way. 
She  had  not  been  outside  the  sick-room  for  weeks, 
and  it  now  seemed  like  a  prison.  A  daring  wish 
arose  within  her  to  see  Roger  in  his  study.  She 
put  it  away,  but  it  returned.  Her  cheek  flushed  as 


ROGER  HUNT.  231 

she  thought  of  it,  and  her  heart  beat  with  happy 
anticipation.  She  never  thought  of  displeasing 
him.  On  the  contrary,  with  that  fatuous  power  of 
self-delusion  which  loving  natures  possess,  and 
crucify  themselves  with  anew  every  day,  she  thought 
he  would  be  pleased.  He  had  sometimes  made  her 
feel  that  she  yielded  too  easily  to  the  physical  weak- 
ness that  was  destroying  her.  It  would  be  a  proof 
to  him  of  returning  strength  and  courage  on  her 
part.  The  thought  soon  gained  complete  possession 
of  her,  but  she  knew  she  must  execute  it  alone. 
Estella  was  in  town  and  safely  out  of  the  way  for 
an  hour,  and  she  devised  an  errand  to  keep  Mrs. 
Saunders  in  another  part  of  the  house  for  a  while. 
Alone,  she  made  a  great  effort  and  rose  to  her  feet, 
steadying  herself  a  moment,  then  walking  with 
slow  uncertain  steps,  stopping  to  rest  now  and  then, 
out  of  the  room,  across  the  intervening  hall,  to  the 
library.  When  she  reached  it,  excitement  more 
than  the  physical  effort  had  tired  her,  her  limbs 
trembled,  and  she  feared  to  fall.  The  door  was 
closed,  but  the  absorption  of  the  two  inside  pre- 
vented them  from  hearing  the  slight  noise  she  made 
in  opening  it,  and  she  stood  unseen  on  the  thresh- 
old a  moment. 

The  picture  that  stamped  itself  indelibly  on  her 
brain  was  innocent  enough  in  its  main  details,  but 
one  she  understood  the  full  import  of. 

Nina  was  seated  at  the  table,  her  back  to  the 
door,  and  writing  at  her  teacher's  dictation,  who 
stood  near  her,  his  hand  on  her  chair,  his  face  bent 


232  ROGER  HUNT. 

nearly  to  the  level  of  hers.  Some  word  of  his  had 
caused  her  to  raise  her  face  to  his,  so  near  that  his 
breath  stirred  her  hair.  Eleanor  caught  the  look 
of  rapt  feeling,  shy,  eager,  grateful,  which  suf- 
fused the  young  girl's  face.  She  could  not  see 
Koger's,  but  she  could  guess  its  expression  well 
enough.  She  longed  to  escape,  but  it  was  impos- 
sible, and  she  clung  to  the  door-casing  for  support. 
A  slight  sound  caught  Nina's  ear,  who  turned  and 
saw  her,  uttering  a  slight  scream  of  fright,  then 
quickly  checking  it.  Eleanor  indeed  looked  like 
a  ghost,  in  her  long  white  draperies,  her  face 
ghastly  with  returning  weakness  and  the  knowledge 
of  her  mistake. 

Roger  too  had  turned  quickly,  and  the  face  Nina 
had  seen  so  calm  and  tender  a  moment  before 
changed  terribly. 

"Eleanor,  what  does  this  mean?"  In  his  sur- 
prise and  displeasure  he  forgot  to  go  to  her  assist- 
ance, and  remained  looking  at  her  sternly. 

She  tried  to  smile,  and  cast  an  apologetic  look 
towards  Nina. 

"I  —  I  only  wanted  to  surprise  you,  Roger;  I 
felt  so  much  better  this  morning,  I —  I " 

The  room  began  to  whirl  about  her.  Nina's 
face,  frightened,  and  with  a  look  of  pitying  wonder, 
tinged  with  guilty  consciousness  besides,  and  Ro- 
ger's, stern  and  accusing,  floated  out  of  sight.  She 
reeled,  and  reached  out  a  hand  blindly. 

"Oh,  she  will  fall!  "  cried  Nina.  It  was  she 
who  sprung  to  her  assistance,  her  arms  that  caught 


ROGER  HUNT.  233 

and  held  the  swaying  figure,  then  helped  it  to  a 
chair,  kneeling  beside  and  half  supporting  her. 

"This  is  the  greatest  piece  of  folly  I  ever  heard 
of,"  Roger  exclaimed,  after  Eleanor  had  partially 
recovered,  and  sat  leaning  back  in  her  chair,  white 
and  exhausted.  "Where  is  Mrs.  Saunders?  "  and 
he  stepped  to  the  door  and  called  her  in  a  voice 
of  sharp  command.  "I  shall  discharge  her,  if  she 
doesn't  attend  to  her  duties  better  than  this."  He 
stood  looking  down  on  his  wife  gloomily. 

"What  in  the  world  were  you  thinking  of?."  he 
asked,  in  the  same  tone  as  before. 

"  Don't  scold  her,"  Nina  said,  glancing  up  at  him, 
from  the  place  she  still  kept  at  the  sick  woman's 
side.  He  turned  abruptly  away. 

"I  —  I'm  sorry,  Roger,"  Eleanor  said  faintly. 
"I  ought  not  to  have  come,  I  know.  Don't  blame 
Mrs.  Saunders,  please.  She  did  not  know"  — 

A  fit  of  coughing  interrupted  her.  She  pressed 
her  handkerchief  to  her  lips,  and  when  she  took  it 
away,  Nina  saw  a  spot  of  red.  She  uttered  a  low 
exclamation  of  fright.  Eleanor's  eyes  rested  on 
her  with  a  strange,  yearning  look  the  girl  never 
forgot. 

"It  is  nothing,"  she  said.  "I  am  sorry  I  inter- 
rupted you.  I  won't  do  it  again." 

Mrs.  Saunders  entered  at  that  moment  and  Nina 
rose  to  her  feet.  Roger  briefly  explained  the  sit- 
uation in  a  tone  that  conveyed  a  plain  rebuke  for 
her  negligence.  "We  must  get  her  back  to  her 
room  at  once." 


234  ROGER  HUNT. 

"I  '11  manage  that,  sir,"  the  nurse  said,  and  ap- 
proached her  charge  to  lift  and  carry  her  away. 

"No  —  no,"  exlaimed  Eleanor,  shrinking  from 
this  exposure  of  her  weakness.  "Don't  carry  me; 
I  can  walk."  Mrs.  Saunders  helped  her  to  her 
feet,  Eoger  trying  to  assist,  but  awkwardly,  and 
soon  desisting.  The  nurse  put  one  strong  arm 
about  the  sick  woman,  and  led  her  slowly  to  the 
door. 

"Let  me  help,"  said  Nina,  darting  impulsively 
forward. 

"There  ain't  no  need,  Miss,"  the  other  replied, 
and  in  a  moment  they  were  gone. 

Nina  stood  looking  after  them  a  moment.  Turn- 
ing, she  saw  Roger.  He  had  thrown  himself  into 
a  chair,  burying  his  face  in  his  crossed  arms  on  the 
back;  but  she  scarcely  heeded  him.  She  put  on 
her  hat  and  cloak  hurriedly  and  stepped  to  the 
door,  where  she  paused  and  looked  back. 

"I  —  I  am  going  now,  sir."  He  raised  his  face. 
It  was  the  picture  of  melancholy  despair.  He 
looked  at  her  a  moment. 

"Why  are  you  going?  "  he  asked. 

"It  is  nearly  time,"  glancing  at  the  clock.  It 
said  they  had  still  twenty  minutes ;  they  had  con- 
sulted it  very  little  of  late.  He  bent  the  same  look 
of  mournful  reproach  on  her. 

"  Why  not  speak  the  truth  ?  Why  not  say  you 
are  going  because  you  are  displeased  with  me?" 

"Displeased  with  you  !  "  she  repeated  falteringly. 
He  rose  and  came  towards  her. 


ROGER  HUNT.  235 

"You  are  displeased  with  me,  and  you  have  a 
right  to  be.  I  behaved  badly."  He  paused,  and  a 
deep  sigh  came  from  him.  "  But  it  gave  me  a  ter- 
rible shock !  "  His  voice  sank,  his  eyes  rested  on 
the  floor,  his  whole  attitude  spoke  sorrowful  con- 
trition and  self-reproach.  He  said  truly;  Nina 
had  been  painfully  surprised,  a  quick  sharp  distrust 
of  him  had  pierced  her  like  a  knife.  But  she  was 
more  ashamed  for  herself;  she  felt  like  a  thief. 
Yet  it  was  hard  to  throw  off  in  a  moment  the  in- 
fluence which  had  held  her  so  long.  With  Roger 
standing  there  before  her,  humbled  and  penitent, 
waiting  her  verdict,  it  was  not  easy  to  open  the  door 
and  leave  him.  Perhaps  it  was  not  real  anger  that 
had  prompted  him  to  speak  so  harshly,  only  be- 
wildered surprise.  She  stood  hesitating. 

"I  do  everything  I  can,"  he  went  on  in  a  dis- 
couraged tone.  "I  make  no  merit  of  that.  I  give 
her  the  best  of  care,  try  to  gratify  every  wish,  yet 
you  see  for  yourself  how  reckless  and  imprudent 
she  is." 

The  girl  lowered  her  eyes ;  a  pained  and  irreso- 
lute expression  flitted  across  her  face. 

"She  —  she  wanted  to  please  you,  I  think. 
She  has  suffered  so  much." 

"  That  is  true ;  I  ought  not  to  forget  that.  I  try 
to  bear  it  always  in  mind  —  but  I  —  I  have  suffered, 
too."  He  turned  away.  She  could  find  no  reply 
and  kept  silent.  Something  within  told  her  these 
were  no  words  to  be  addressed  to  her,  but  she  could 
not  help  a  deep,  ignorant  pity  for  the  one  who 
spoke  them.  He  turned  and  faced  her  again. 


236  ROGER  HUNT. 

"You  will  not  forgive  me,  then?" 

"I"  —  she  exclaimed,  blushing  painfully.  "Oh, 
sir,  it  is  not  I " —  She  checked  herself .  "There 
is  nothing  for  me  to  forgive,"  she  added,  her  look 
falling  before  his.  His  eye  brightened :  — 

"  Then  will  you  walk  with  me  ?  I  cannot  go  back 
to  my  books  —  now,"  glancing  towards  his  desk 
with  a  sigh.  She  hesitated,  but  saw  no  way  save 
to  comply,  which  she  did,  however,  with  more  re- 
luctance than  she  had  ever  granted  request  of  his 
before. 

She  could  not  have  told  how,  with  no  definite 
appeal  on  his  part,  and  before  the  walk  was  half 
ended,  the  current  of  sympathy  had  set  strongly  in 
his  direction  again.  Without  making  any  direct 
confidences,  he  seemed  to  tell  her  everything.  The 
tone  of  intentional  self-restraint,  the  frank  admis- 
sion of  his  own  faults,  veiled  allusions  to  some  ex- 
ceptional experience  in  the  past,  his  exaltation  of 
the  sentiment  of  friendship,  all  combined  to  dis- 
arm and  enthrall  his  listener.  Thus,  with  her 
rising  scruples  partially  allayed,  sympathy  warmed 
anew,  and  girlish  pride  aflame  with  the  knowledge 
of  her  own  power  to  help  one  who  needed  and  de- 
served help,  the  walk  came  to  an  end. 

The  discovery  Eleanor  made  in  her  visit  to  the 
study  was  one  former  experiences  might  have  pre- 
pared her  for,  and  which  humiliated  her  for  Rog- 
er's sake  far  more  than  it  could  now  pain  her  for 
her  own.  She  recalled  Estella's  words  about  her 


EOGER  HUNT.  237 

father's  changed  feeling  towards  Nina,  and  mar- 
veled at  her  own  dullness.  Early  in  their  united 
lives  she  reached  her  first  surprised,  shamed,  and 
then  jealous  knowledge  of  Roger's  susceptibility 
towards  women,  his  almost  exclusive  dependence 
on  them  for  sympathy  and  near  companionship. 
She  tried  to  reason  about  and  excuse  it,  even  when 
suffering  most  from  such  knowledge,  remembering 
his  peculiar  temperament,  and  sustaining  herself 
in  the  old  belief,  which  she  still  held,  in  Roger's 
purity  of  motive.  She  had  no  reason  to  believe  he 
had  ever  been  untrue  to  her  in  any  outward  sense; 
he  had  only  permitted  his  imagination,  which  was 
of  a  roving  order,  to  wander  as  it  would,  engross- 
ing itself  with  any  new  object  that  pleased  it.  She 
knew  what  Roger's  excuse  for  these  spiritual 
flights  was,  and  so  potent  was  his  influence  over 
her  still,  that  there  were  times  when  she  tried  to 
make  his  excuse  hers.  If  she  had  not  disappointed 
him,  had  proved  all  he  wished  and  all  he  needed, 
he  would  not  be  obliged  to  seek  companionship 
elsewhere. 

Towards  the  women  themselves,  —  these  stars  of 
Platonic  friendship  that  rose  from  time  to  time  in 
the  domestic  firmament,  eclipsing  the  wife's  faith- 
ful planet,  — evfen  Eleanor's  gentle  and  self -abne- 
gating nature  felt  some  righteous  scorn,  which  even 
the  knowledge  of  her  own  frailty  could  not  wholly 
extinguish.  This  feeling  did  not  extend  to  Nina, 
however,  for  whom  she  felt  more  pity  than  blame. 

Blame  of  all  kinds  was  corning  to  be  out  of  place 


238  ROGER  HUNT. 

in  one  so  near  the  final  judgment.  Happily,  as 
the  spirit  slips  its  sheath  of  flesh,  earthly  affairs, 
even  the  nearest,  lose  in  importance,  recede  and 
fade  from  sight.  The  soul  feels  its  own  helpless- 
ness in  the  presence  of  the  impending  change.  It 
is  God's  world,  he  will  take  care  of  it,  was  the 
prayerful  excuse  with  which  Eleanor  let  one  care 
after  another  slip  from  her.  She  felt  sorry  for 
Nina,  in  a  strangely  curious  and  impersonal  way, 
newly  discouraged  with  Roger,  quite  indifferent 
about  herself,  troubled  only  for  Estella.  She  was, 
therefore,  thankful  for  the  opportunity  presented 
in  Roger's  decision  to  send  her  from  home  six 
months  earlier  than  he  first  intended,  to  keep  her 
young  eyes  shielded  with  ignorance  a  little  longer. 


XVI. 

HER  father  went  with  Estella  to  Monroe,  the 
latter  spending  the  night's  journey  in  tears,  and 
reaching  the  end  half  ill  with  weariness  and  grief. 

They  went  to  the  hotel  for  breakfast,  and  then 
started  out  to  pay  a  visit  to  the  university.  Es- 
tella's  homesickness  increased  with  every  new  ob- 
ject that  met  her  view.  Her  heart  sank  as  she 
followed  her  father  through  the  wide  corridor  of 
the  main  building,  filled  with  busy  young  men  and 
women,  carrying  books  in  their  arms.  .  Nothing 
could  be  in  greater  contrast  to  the  quiet  surround- 
ings she  had  left  at  home  than  the  prospective  life 
that  opened  before  her  here.  She  had  never  felt 
so  insignificant. 

Roger  inquired  the  way  to  the  president's  office. 
A  tall,  angular-looking  man,  something  of  the 
Abraham  Lincoln  build,  with  keen  eye  and  schol- 
arly face,  rose  to  meet  them  as  they  entered,  giv- 
ing them  a  courteous  welcome,  then  turning  his  at- 
tention to  other  visitors  who  had  preceded  them. 
When  his  turn  came,  the  president  listened  quietly 
to  Roger's  statement  of  his  business,  bent  one  or 
two  examining  glances  on  Estella,  and  learning 
that  she  was  not  yet  ready  to  enter  the  regular 
course,  summoned  a  boy  in  waiting  and  sent  him 
away  with  a  message- 


240  ROGER  HUNT. 

"Professor  Hart  has  charge  of  the  preparatory 
department,"  he  explained.  " I  have  sent  for  him." 

At  that  moment  a  bell  rung.  "We  shall  have 
to  wait  now  until  after  chapel  exercises,"  he  said. 
"Perhaps  you  would  like  to  join  us." 

Roger  drew  himself  up.  "Do  I  understand  that 
attendance  on  chapel  exercises  is  obligatory?"  he 
asked.  The  president  looked  at  him  with  mild 
surprise,  and  replied  it  was. 

"I  am  very  sorry  to  hear  it,"  said  Roger 
brusquely,  "very  sorry."  Estella  flushed  at  her 
father's  tone  and  the  amused  looks  on  the  faces  of 
two  or  three  people  standing  near,  who  had  over- 
heard him. 

The  president  made  no  reply,  regarding  his  vis- 
itor more  attentively  a  moment,  then  excusing  him- 
self and  parsing  out.  The  others  followed,  leav- 
ing Roger  and  Estella  by  themselves.  The  latter 
was  glad  to  be  relieved  from  the  observation  of 
strangers,  but  thought  it  would  have  looked  better 
if  they  had  gone  with  the  others.  Her  father  broke 
out  into  a  petty  tirade  against  the  absent  head  of 
the  institution,  calling  him  an  "antiquated  fossil," 
and  declaiming  against  the  elevation  of  such  men 
to  places  of  honor  and  influence.  Estella  made  no 
reply ;  she  thought  the  president  had  a  rather  kind 
face,  but  was  not  interested. 

When  he  returned,  a  younger  man  accompanied 
him  who  was  introduced  as  Professor  Hart,  and 
Roger  and  Estella  were  placed  in  his  charge.  As 
they  turned  to  leave  the  room,  Roger  jostled  against 


ROGER  HUNT.  241 

a  young  man  who  had  just  entered.  He  spoke  a 
word  of  rapid  apology,  but  scarcely  saw  the  one  to 
whom  it  was  addressed.  Estella  noted  him  more 
carefully,  and  the  two  exchanged  a  look  that  gave 
each  a  vivid  impression  of  the  other.  She  followed 
her  father  from  the  room. 

"Well,  Watson,  what  is  it?"  she  heard  the 
president  say,  as  she  passed  through  the  door. 

Her  father,  she  was  glad  to  find,  seemed  rather 
pleased  with  Professor  Hart.  Roger  expressed  his 
disapproval,  when  he  learned  that  the  Roman  pro- 
nunciation had  been  adopted  in  Monroe,  being  as 
conservative  in  his  literary  principles  as  he  was 
radical  in  some  others;  and  Professor  Hart  let 
him  see  he  sympathized  with  him.  Another 
ground  of  mutual  interest  was  found  in  their  com- 
mon love  of  science,  and  dissatisfaction  that  the 
university  had  not  planted  itself  squarely  on  the 
Darwinian  basis.  Professor  Hart  took  them  to 
his  laboratory,  where  he  and  Roger  fell  into  a 
long  and  learned  talk  on  bacteria,  during  which 
Estella  grew  very  tired,  and  felt  herself  ill-used. 
When  the  professor  learned  something  of  his  new 
acquaintance's  pursuits  and  identified  him  as  the 
author  of  one  or  two  magazine  articles  he  had  read 
with  much  profit,  the  relation  assumed  a  still 
more  friendly  character.  Estella  noted  the  frank 
pleasure  her  father  felt  in  this  recognition,  and 
was  pleased  for  him.  She  saw,  too,  though  she 
was  too  miserable  to  care  about  it,  that  this  discov- 
ery raised  herself  as  well  as  her  father  in  the  pro- 


242  ROGER  HUNT. 

fessor's  eyes.  If  the  president  had,  as  she  ex- 
pected, conceived  a  prejudice  against  her  father, 
Professor  Hart  had  taken  as  strong  a  one  in  his 
favor.  As  they  left  the  laboratory,  she  saw  a 
young  man  walking  down  the  hall,  some  distance 
ahead  of  them,  and  though  his  back  was  turned, 
she  recognized  him  as  the  young  man  her  father 
had  jostled  against  in  the  president's  office. 

"That  is  my  assistant,"  Professor  Hart  said  to 
her.  "He  will  be  your  teacher  in  mathematics. 
I  should  like  to  introduce  you."  He  opened  his 
lips  to  call  him,  but  at  the  same  moment  the  young 
man  turned  a  corner  and  disappeared. 

"Never  mind;  some  other  time  will  do  as  well," 
he  said,  smiling. 

He  then  gave  her  father  a  list  of  addresses,  for 
the  next  duty  was  to  find  a  suitable  home  for  Es- 
tella.  Accompanying  them  to  the  door,  he  bade 
them  a  friendly  farewell,  again  expressing  to  Roger 
his  pleasure  in  meeting  him. 

They  seated  themselves  in  the  carriage  which 
Roger  had  ordered  to  wait,  and  were  driven  through 
the  wide  streets,  lined  with  trees  just  clothing 
themselves  in  the  young  foliage  of  an  early  spring. 

"A  very  intelligent  young  man!"  said  Roger. 
"It's  a  pity  he  isn't  at  the  head  of  the  institu- 
tion." 

E stella  could  make  no  reply.  Another  wave  of 
homesickness  was  sweeping  over  her.  The  mus- 
cles of  her  throat  ached  with  the  effort  to  keep 
back  her  sobs,  but  the  tears  would  gather  and  roll 


ROGER  HUNT.  243 

in  great  drops  down  her  cheeks.  She  shrank  back 
into  the  corner  of  the  carriage,  and  covered  her 
face  with  her  handkerchief.  Roger  noticed  her, 
and  felt  sorry  for  her,  but  forbore,  wisely  as  he 
thought,  to  express  any  such  feeling.  He  talked 
on  indifferent  topics,  not  seeming  to  observe  that 
he  received  no  answers.  The  carriage  drew  up  be- 
fore one  of  the  places  indicated  on  the  list.  The 
prospect  was  not  inviting.  A  small  frame  house, 
one  of  a  long  block,  with  a  long  flight  of  dirty 
and  broken  steps,  was  what  Roger  saw  when  he 
alighted. 

"This  won't  do,  I  know,"  he  said,  but,  bidding 
Estella  remain  where  she  was,  went  reluctantly  up 
the  steps.  An  untidy  servant  answered  the  bell, 
and  looked  at  him  with  a  vacuous  countenance. 
As  the  door  opened  he  caught  a  whiff  of  mixed  and 
greasy  smells  from  the  kitchen  below,  and  saying 
hastily  that  he  had  made  a  mistake,  returned  to 
the  carriage,  and  ordered  the  driver  to  go  on  to  the 
next  place. 

"There  is  no  use  in  wasting  time  here,"  he  said, 
as  he  seated  himself  by  Estella.  "I  don't  know 
what  Professor  Hart  meant  by  referring  us  to  such 
a  place." 

The  next  presented  a  more  inviting  outside,  but 
developed  nothing  but  a  small  third  story  back 
room,  with  no  sun  and  poorly  heated. 

"I  don't  know  as  I  should  mind  a  third  story," 
said  Estella,  listlessly,  as  they  rolled  on  again. 

"I  mind  it,"  her  father  replied.     Her  mind  was 


244  ROGER  HUNT. 

less  occupied  with  the  material  comforts  he  was  so 
careful  to  inquire  into  than  with  painful  conjec- 
tures on  other  points,  the  kind  of  people  she  should 
be  thrown  in  with,  the  impossibility,  she  now  felt 
it,  of  making  acquaintance  with  strangers,  of  inter- 
esting herself  in  this  new  life,  liking  and  making 
it  her  own. 

The  third  stopping-place  looked  so  attractive 
that  Roger  told  Estella  to  come  with  him,  and  the 
two  ascended  together  the  steps  to  a  neat  brick 
residence  on  a  quiet  street,  that  wore  an  air  of  do- 
mestic retirement.  A  pleasant-faced  servant  re- 
sponded to  their  summons,  but  disappointed  them 
by  reporting  her  mistress  out.  On  learning  she 
would  return  soon,  Roger  asked  permission  to 
enter  and  wait.  The  parlor  into  which  they  were 
ushered  was  small  but  homelike,  with  signs  of  re- 
fined taste  and  some  degree  of  culture  in  its  ap- 
pointments. 

"  Really,  I  begin  to  think  we  have  found  some- 
thing at  last,"  said  Roger,  in  an  expectant  tone. 
Estella  dropped  into  a  chair,  and  listlessly  waited 
what  might  happen  next.  In  a  moment  there  was 
a  rustling  sound  on  the  staircase  in  the  adjoining 
hall,  the  portiere  was  pushed  aside,  and  a  woman 
entered.  She  was  of  middle  age,  short  stature, 
and  a  trifle  stout,  with  light  hair,  and  dressed  in 
widow's  black,  relieved  with  muslin  bands  at  the 
throat  and  wrist. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  she  began,  before  she 
fairly  saw  them,  "but  I  am  Mrs.  Black's  sister, 
and  if  you  wish  to  look  at  rooms  " 


ROGER  HUNT.  245 

She  stopped  suddenly.  Roger  had  turned  while 
she  was  speaking,  bringing  his  face  into  full  light. 
They  recognized  each  other  at  once.  He  stood 
facing  Kitty  Somers. 

She  spoke  his  name,  in  extreme  astonishment, 
and  stood  looking  at  him.  He  neither  answered 
nor  moved  towards  her,  only  looked  at  her  in  turn. 
That  he  was  as  deeply  surprised  as  she,  and  a  little 
agitated,  was  evident,  but  it  was  not  for  him  to 
make  the  first  move.  A  variety  of  emotions  swept 
over  her  face.  What  she  might  have  done  had  they 
two  been  alone  need  not  be  conjectured;  but  the 
surprised  look  on  Estella's  face,  who  had  risen  from 
her  chair,  caught  her,  and  recalled  her  to  herself. 
She  had  heard  of  Roger's  marriage,  shortly  after 
it  occurred,  and  of  the  birth  of  a  daughter,  so  she 
understood  the  situation  at  once.  She  stepped  for- 
ward and  extended  her  hand. 

"This  is  a  great  surprise,"  she  said. 

A  deep  flush  of  relief  and  gladness  surged  over 
his  face.  He  clasped  her  hand  warmly.  She 
withdrew  it  and  turned  to  the  young  girl. 

"This  is  your  daughter?"  and  Roger  made  the 
necessary  introductions.  Mrs.  Somers  took  her 
hand,  and  looked  at  her  kindly. 

"Your  father  and  I  are  old  acquaintances,"  she 
said. 

Roger  noticed  she  did  not  say  "friends."  A 
light  broke  over  Estella's  face. 

"Oh,  and  did  you  know  my  mother,  too?  " 

Mrs.  Somers  felt  Roger's  eyes  upon  her. 


246  ROGER  HUNT. 

"Not  so  well,  yet  I  remember  her  quite  dis- 
tinctly, also.  She  is  well,  I  hope?  " 

The  girl  looked  at  her,  her  lips  quivered,  she 
tried  to  speak,  but  could  not.  Roger  explained 
that  Estella's  mother  had  been  an  invalid  for  many 
years. 

She  turned  to  him,  and  asked  a  few  common- 
place questions.  He  answered,  keeping  a  watchful 
eye  on  her.  Estella,  too,  looked  at  her  earnestly. 
She  was  puzzled,  but  felt  a  strong  attraction  to- 
wards this  new  acquaintance.  Would  she  admit 
any  claim  towards  herself?  Would  she  like  her  to 
stay?  Had  she  liked  her  father?  She  thought  she 
seemed  a  little  embarrassed  before  him,  and  noted, 
too,  with  more  perplexity,  that  he  seemed  a  little 
afraid  of  her.  Mrs.  Somers  caught  the  yearning, 
wistful  look  once  or  twice,  and  it  touched  her. 
The  instinct  of  protection  was  as  active  as  ever, 
and  already  at  work. 

In  a  few  minutes  Mrs.  Black  entered,  and  was 
presented  and  made  acquainted  with  the  visitors' 
errand.  Greatly  to  her  surprise,  her  father  signed 
to  Estella  to  go  and  look  at  the  rooms  without  him. 

When  he  and  Mrs.  Somers  were  left  alone  they 
exchanged  a  long  look. 

"How  strange  we  should  meet  like  this!"  she 
murmured. 

"I  fear  I  must  assume  that  to  you  the  meeting 
is  as  disagreeable  as  it  is  strange,  but  you  need 
fear  no  intrusion  from  me.  Estella  and  I  will  take 
our  leave  presently,  and  not  trouble  you  further." 


ROGER  HUNT.  247 

Mrs.  Somers  knew  what  words  like  these  meant. 
She  knew  he  wished  Estella  to  stay,  but  that  he 
did  not  mean  to  ask  it.  She  was  provoked  with 
herself  that  her  own  wish  ran  with  his.  Estella's 
face,  with  the  appealing  eyes,  red  with  weeping, 
and  the  sensitive  mouth,  had  made  an  instant  and 
deep  impression  on  her.  Years  had  done  little  to 
abate  her  impulsiveness,  and  already  she  loved  the 
girl,  she  thought.  Yet  how  could  she  be  friends 
with  the  daughter,  and  ignore  the  father?  It  was 
not  of  himself  he  was  thinking  least  in  this  matter, 
she  was  very  sure.  She  foresaw  difficulties  and 
complications,  but  for  all  that  the  wish  in  her  heart 
grew  stronger. 

"Why  not  let  her  stay,  if  she  wishes?"  She 
tried  to  speak  carelessly. 

"It  can  hardly  be  as  she  wishes,"  was  the  reply; 
then,  after  a  moment's  pause,  and  observing  her : 
"It  can  only  be  as  you  wish."  She  frowned  a  lit- 
tle, finding  herself  in  a  more  difficult  position  than 
before. 

"Estella  is  a  stranger  in  the  city?"  she  asked, 
after  reflecting  a  space. 

"An  entire  stranger."  Roger  had  not  thought 
of  this  before,  but  the  words  were  spoken  with 
portentous  gravity. 

"She  has  never  been  away  from  home  before?" 

"Never." 

"  Would  —  would  you  like  her  to  stay,  —  if  the 
place  suits  her?"  This  question  was  cunning,  and 
left  them  facing  each  other  in  a  new  position. 


248  ROGER  HUNT. 

"That  would  depend  upon  what  conditions  she 
was  permitted  to  remain,"  he  said,  plainly. 

"Conditions?" 

"I  cannot  consent  to  leave  my  daughter  in  any 
place  where  she  is  likely  to  form  a  disparaging 
opinion  of  her  father." 

"How  can  you  say  such  a  thing!  "  she  exclaimed 
indignantly.  "What  must  you  think  of  me,  I 
wonder! " 

"I  think  very  highly  of  you,  as  you  know,"  he 
replied,  in  a  tone  that  made  her  color. 

"Why  should  I  disparage  you  to  her?  As 
though  the  poor  girl's  happiness  did  not  depend  on 
her  faith  in  you  !  "  she  retorted  bitterly. 

"Estella  is  an  object  of  commiseration  to  you,  I 
suppose."  She  was  silent. 

"You  pity  her,  as  you  blame  me.  You  have 
always  blamed  me! " 

"Of  course  I.  blamed  you.  We  both  blamed 
you,  but  we  did  not  judge  you  as  harshly  as  others 
did.  We  knew  you  acted  from  what  you  believed 
to  be  sufficient  motives,  but  we  thought  you  terri- 
bly in  the  wrong.  Afterward,  when  we  heard  of 
your  marriage,  we  were  very  thankful.  We  said 
it  was  like  you ;  you  had  done  what  you  could  to 
rectify  your  mistake." 

"Do  not  give  me  praise  I  do  not  deserve,"  he 
said,  flinging  back  his  head  with  the  impatient 
motion  she  remembered  so  well.  "I  never  sought 
to  rectify  any  mistake,  for  the  simple  reason  that  I 
have  never  yet  acknowledged  it  was  a  mistake." 
She  looked  at  him  with  a  mournful  smile. 


ROGER  HUNT.  249 

"You  have  not  changed  much,  Roger." 

"I  don't  know.  I  have  laid  up  a  small  store  of 
experience.  And  if  it 's  any  merit  in  me,  I  am  a 
somewhat  sadder  as  well  as  wiser  man." 

"Ah,  then,  you  did  see  it  was  a  mistake,  that 
you  had  taken  the  wrong  way !  " 

"There  have  been  some  mistakes,  very  likely, 
but  I  doubt  if  we  should  agree  in  placing  them." 
She  did  not  understand  this,  nor  care  to,  and 
sought  an  easier  theme. 

"Tell  me  about  Eleanor,"  she  said.  "I  remem- 
ber how  delicate  she  was.  I  never  knew  her  very 
well.  After  —  after  what  happened  I  reproached 
myself  many  times  that  I  had  not  tried  to  know 
her  better." 

"You  would  have  tried  to  prevent  it?"  raising 
his  head. 

"Certainly,  I  should  have  tried  to  prevent  it,  if 
I  could." 

"You  are  very  frank,  but  Eleanor  would  not 
have  helped  you,  at  least  not  then.  Afterward, 
she  might." 

"Afterward?" 

"The  qualities  you  find  lacking  in  me,  Eleanor 
has  to  excess." 

"Ah  !  "  recalling  her  prediction.  "She  has  not 
been  happy,  then?" 

"  No  one  is  happy  who  proves  unequal  to  a  great 
task.  Eleanor  failed  me  !  " 

"Failed  you!" 

"  It  is  natural  that  you  should  look  on  her  as  the 
chief  sufferer"  — 


250  ROGER  HUNT. 

"Failed  you!"  she  exclaimed  again,  but  at  the 
same  moment  held  up  her  hand.  Steps  were  heard 
descending,  and  in  a  moment  Mrs.  Black  and  Es- 
tella  reentered. 

"I  like  the  room  very  much,  papa,"  the  latter 
said,  stepping  towards  him,  and  speaking  in  a  tone 
that  conveyed  a  strong  wish. 

Mrs.  Black  wore  the  gratified  look  of  one  about 
to  complete  a  desirable  bargain,  and  smiled  indul- 
gently at  the  girl. 

"We  shall  be  very  glad  to  take  her,"  she  said 
to  him.  But  he  made  no  reply  either  to  Estella  or 
to  her.  He  was  looking  at  Mrs.  Somers,  quite 
regardless  of  appearances.  Estella  began  to  look 
embarrassed,  Mrs.  Black  annoyed,  but  still  Roger 
kept  his  eyes  on  his  old  friend.  She  reddened 
with  vexation  and  a  feeling  of  defeat. 

"You  had  better  let  her  stay,"  she  said,  turning 
towards  him,  and  speaking  more  coldly  than  the 
import  of  her  words  warranted.  A  flash  of  triumph 
lighted  his  eyes  a  moment.  Estella  was  told  she 
could  stay.  Mrs.  Somers 's  vexation  continued,  but 
she  was  ready  to  laugh,  too. 

"He  succeeded  in  making  me  do  as  he  wished," 
she  said  to  herself,  alone  in  her  room.  "That  is 
Roger  Hunt.  Estella  stays  because  I  asked  it; 
I  am  the  favored  one.  But  why  should  I  care? 
The  girl  needs  a  friend,  —  all  the  more  because 
she  has  a  father." 

After  Roger's  departure,  she  accompanied  Es- 
tella to  her  room,  where  she  left  her,  judging  it 


BOGER  HUNT.  251 

better  to  leave  her  by  herself  awhile,  letting  re- 
pressed feeling  spend  its  force. 

"I  know  what  it  is  to  be  homesick,"  she  said. 
"I  shan't  pretend  it's  any  easier  to  bear  than  it 
is;  but  you  may  take  my  word  for  it,  you  can't 
always  feel  as  you  do  now.  You  're  bound  to  feel 
better  by  and  by.  But  that  needn't  hinder  you 
from  having  the  longest  and  hardest  cry  of  your 
life  now.  I  should  if  I  were  in  your  place.  I  'm 
going  to  leave  you  now  on  purpose,"  smiling  into 
the  tear-stained  face,  taking  it  between  her  hands 
and  kissing  it.  "  We  're  to  be  very  good  friends, 
my  dear.  My  room  is  across  the  hall,  and  you 
must  ask  me  for  anything  you  want.  We  '11  go 
down  to  lunch  together." 

"I  don't  want  any  lunch,"  said  Estella  plain- 
tively. 

"Not  now,  of  course;  it's  only  eleven  o'clock; 
and  not  at  all  if  you  feel  the  same  way  two  hours 
from  now."  She  kissed  her  again  and  went  out  of 
the  room,  but  left  so  much  of  her  cheerful  presence 
behind  that  Estella  found  it  impossible  to  yield  as 
unrestrainedly  to  the  feelings  at  work  within  her 
as  she  had  permission  to  do.  A  little  quiet  tear- 
shedding  seemed  to  finish  that  sort  of  exercise  for 
the  time,  and  after  she  had  bathed  her  face  and 
combed  her  hair  she  was  glad  to  see  her  trunk 
brought  in,  and  to  find  another  occupation  in  its 
unpacking.  Mrs.  Somers  came  in  again  and  helped 
her.  The  two  remained  together  all  day,  sitting 
in  Mrs.  Somers 's  room  after  supper,  before  a  small 
wood  fire. 


252  ROGER  HUNT. 

"You  are  to  spend  all  your  evenings  in  here," 
she  said  impulsively.  She  felt  she  was  behaving 
rather  recklessly,  but  prompted  partly  by  sympa- 
thy, partly  by  genuine  liking,  and  conscious,  too, 
of  considerable  curiosity,  she  yielded  to  every  fresh 
feeling  of  kindness  that  came  over  her. 

"I  wonder  why  mamma  never  told  me  about 
you,"  Estella  said,  later  in  the  evening,  but  Mrs. 
Somers  explained  this  on  the  ground  of  long  ill- 
ness, which  must  have  dimmed  many  memories  of 
the  past. 

Roger  had  noticed  that  Mrs.  Somers  was  in 
mourning,  and  knew  that  her  husband  must  be 
dead,  but  even  had  he  not  been  more  than  usually 
preoccupied  with  his  own  affairs,  the  occasion  was 
one  that  afforded  little  opportunity  for  the  usual 
expressions  of  interest  and  sympathy.  He  still 
held  to  his  old  opinion  of  the  marriage,  and  the 
injured  remembrance  of  the  last  letter  he  had  re- 
ceived from  George  Somers  had  never  left  him. 

He  left  the  house  in  a  buoyant  and  rather  exult- 
ant frame  of  mind,  having,  as  he  conceived,  been 
able  to  maintain  his  own  against  Mrs.  Somers,  and 
compel  her  respectful  treatment  of  himself.  As  to 
the  motive  which  had  led  her  to  befriend  Estella 
and  show  an  interest  in  her,  he  believed  it  related 
to  some  one  else  ;  that  if  she  were  honest,  this 
revived  acquaintance  was  the  source  of  as  much 
pleasure  to  her  as  he  was  willing  to  admit  it  was 
to  himself,  though  she  would  always,  he  supposed, 


ROGER  HUNT.  253 

keep  up  the  old  feint  of  opposition  and  pretended 
disapproval.  His  old  admiration  for  her  flamed 
into  sudden  life,  even  while  his  irritation  against 
her  remained.  His  blood  tingled,  his  mental  fac- 
ulties were  newly  aroused  by  this  unexpected  en- 
counter with  one  who  had  always  stimulated  his 
imagination,  and  whom,  though  he  had  never  ad- 
mitted it,  he  had  a  stronger  desire  to  please  than 
any  one  he  had  ever  known. 

Mrs.  Somers  had  been  a  widow  four  years. 
Breaking  up  her  home  after  her  husband's  death, 
she  had  secured  a  place  as  newspaper  correspon- 
dent, and  had  spent  much  of  her  time  in  travel, 
chiefly  on  the  Pacific  coast  and  in  the  Mexicos, 
going  once  on  a  special  mission  to  Brazil.  She  had 
been  spending  the  winter  with  her  sister  in  Monroe 
and  her  plans  for  the  future  were  undetermined, 
when  she  met  Roger  Hunt,  and  in  a  way  assumed 
charge  of  his  daughter.  The  loneliness  of  her  wid- 
owhood, without  children  to  care  for,  was  height- 
ened by  the  fact  that  she  missed  her  husband  in  so 
many  ways.  He  had  been  not  only  her  lover,  but 
her  friend  and  most  congenial  companion.  She 
missed  him,  not  simply  when  she  needed  counsel 
and  support,  but  when  she  wanted  some  one  to  talk 
to,  to  share  a  jest,  or,  perhaps,  to  differ  with. 

George  Somers's  death  had  been  sudden,  and 
had  an  element  of  tragedy  in  it.  He  had  been 
killed  instantly  in  a  railroad  accident;  but  there 
was  the  element  of  another  sort  of  tragedy  con- 
nected with  it:  he  and  his  wife  had  quarreled 


254  ROGER  HUNT. 

shortly  before  he  left  her.  To  be  sure,  they  had 
made  up  again,  and  thus  ended  the  affair;  but  they 
were  still  in  its  shadow  when  they  exchanged  their 
last  good-by. 

The  quarrel  was  as  trivial  in  its  source  as  the 
conjugal  dispute  usually  is,  the  result,  mainly,  of 
tired  nerves  on  the  one  hand,  a  depressed  mood  on 
the  other.  Some  careless  word  of  his  had  aroused 
a  swift  feeling  of  injury  in  her,  and  provoked  a 
petulant  reply.  Then  the  gates  were  let  down  and 
impetuous  speech  had  its  way;  the  man's  forced 
coolness  deepening  the  woman's  sense  of  injury, 
her  small  jibing  thrusts  stinging  him  like  nettles. 
He  had  left  her  in  tears,  with  too  much  anger  and 
disgust  still  in  his  own  breast  to  attempt  reconcil- 
iation. Each  felt  very  much  abused  and  very 
heroic  for  the  space  of  half  an  hour;  at  the  end  of 
which  George  dallied  with  the  impulse  to  turn  back 
from  his  office  door  and  reenter  his  violated  home, 
and  Kitty  tried  to  devise  an  errand  that  might 
take  her  accidentally  down  town.  But  the  absurd- 
ity of  the  affair  began  now  to  appear,  and  they 
passed  the  day  in  miserable  waiting.  Each  looked 
at  the  other  with  a  shame -stricken  face,  when  they 
met  at  night,  then  broke  into  a  helpless  laugh. 
The  next  moment  she  was  in  his  arms,  crying  and 
laughing  at  once,  and,  woman-like,  abusing  herself 
and  declaring  she  alone  was  to  blame. 

"You  don't  mean  that,"  he  said,  releasing  her. 
His  emotional  resources,  even  in  periods  like  this, 
proved  smaller  than  hers.  She  looked  up  at  him 


ROGER  HUNT.  255 

with  a  conscious  expression,  the  tear-drops  still 
hanging  on  her  eyelashes. 

"Well,  no,"  she  sighed,  "perhaps  I  don't.  But 
George,  it  is  so  ridiculous,  so  perfectly  shameful  in 
us!  Why  do  we  behave  so?  But  we  never  will 
again!  "  she  added  hopefully. 

He  smiled,  with  a  touch  of  mournfulness.  He 
had  been  a  listener  to  such  devoutly-spoken  resolu- 
tions before ;  they  impressed  him  much  as  a  resolve 
might  not  to  stumble  over  an  unseen  obstacle  on 
a  dark  night.  His  was  not  a  sanguine  nature ;  she 
understood  his  feeling  and  had  learned  to  read  its 
signs. 

"You  are  such  a  fatalist,"  she  said  reproach- 
fully. "  How  are  we  ever  to  do  any  better,  if  we 
have  no  faith  in  ourselves,  if  we  don't  try." 

"Perhaps  we  never  shall  do  much  better,"  he 
replied  resignedly. 

"Oh,  how  dreadful!  Two  such  people  as  we 
are,"  —  they  were  a  rather  superior  couple,  she 
thought,  —  "  to  spend  all  our  lives  quarreling  and 
making  up,  and  about  nothing  at  all!  " 

"We  do  not  spend  all  our  lives  quarreling,"  he 
corrected  her.  "As  for  the  making  up,  that's 
rather  in  our  favor,  it  seems  to  me,  and  it 's  bet- 
ter to  have  no  cause  for  a  quarrel  than  a  good  one, 
in  such  cases." 

"I  don't  see  why,"  she  said,  rather  dully,  for 
her. 

"Well,  I  can't  stop  to  explain  now.  I've  got 
to  go  to  New  York  to-night." 


256  ROGER  HUNT. 

"To  New  York!       To-night !  " 

He  explained  to  her  the  business  errand  that  was 
to  take  him  from  home  for  a  few  days. 

"But  why  must  you  go  to-night?"  she  urged. 
It  seemed  a  kind  of  sacrilege  for  them  to  separate 
now. 

"In  order  to  be  there  to-morrow." 

"I  've  half  a  mind  to  go  with  you." 

"All  right.     You  can  if  you  want  to." 

She  reflected  a  moment,  but  prudential  thoughts 
overcame  this  impulse. 

"But  I  shall  go  to  the  train  with  you,"  she  said. 

"You  had  better  not.  It  is  dark,  and  you  will 
have  to  come  home  alone." 

"I  don't  care,"  she  said  hurriedly,  "I  shall  go." 

She  gained  little  by  this,  except  the  chance  to 
keep  him  in  sight,  for  the  street-car  was  crowded, 
compelling  George  to  stand  on  the  platform  out- 
side, and  at  the  station  he  was  hailed  by  an  ac- 
quaintance and  kept  talking  on  some  business  topic 
until  the  train  was  ready  to  start.  They  kissed 
each  other  and  she  stood  watching  as  he  moved 
slowly  in  his  place  in  the  line  through  the  gate, 
and  then  mounted  the  car  platform.  He  turned 
and  lifted  his  hat,  and  she  waved  her  hand.  Then 
he  went  inside,  and  she  saw  him  no  more,  until  he 
was  brought  home  to  her  in  his  coffin. 

The  relation  between  these  two  was  peculiar,  and 
not  entirely  destroyed  by  death.  Lonely  as  she 
was,  Kitty  Somers  never  felt  entirely  alone ;  death 
having  surrounded  her  with  a  presence  more  near 


ROGER  HUNT.  257 

and  pervading,  in  some  ways,  than  life  had  brought. 
She  counseled  with  George,  dead,  much  as  she  had 
with  George,  living;  projected  his  views  against  or 
in  support  of  her  own;  talked  things  over  with 
him.  They  understood  and  belonged  to  each  other 
still.  No  other  relation  could  ever  replace  this 
one,  whose  very  imperfections  helped  to  constitute 
its  claim  for  precedence. 

This  was  Kitty  Somers's  idea  of  married  fealty, 
of  love's  loyalty,  which  must  be  preserved  whether 
love  be  perfect  or  not.  How  can  love  be  perfect, 
humanly  conditioned,  more  than  knowledge?  It 
was  an  idea  a  man  like  Roger  Hunt  would  not  have 
understood  in  the  least,  nor  have  professed  to  re- 
spect, if  he  did  understand  it. 


XVII. 

ESTELLA  did  not  settle  at  once  into  her  new 
place.  Study  in  a  large  school-room,  and  contact 
with  so  many  people,  was  quite  new  to  her.  Life 
was  not  very  quiet  at  Mrs.  Black's  either,  who  had 
several  "roomers,"  as  they  were  called,  to  mark 
the  fact  that  they  were  not  boarders,  and  took  their 
meals  out;  but  Mrs.  Somers  had  persuaded  her 
sister  to  make  an  exception  of  Estella.  The  con- 
stant coming  and  going,  shutting  of  doors,  and 
sound  of  gay  young  voices  in  the  hall,  was  a  com- 
plete contrast  to  the  perpetual  quiet  at  home. 

"Our  house  is  so  still,"  she  said  to  Mrs.  Somers 
once.  "Sometimes  the  neighbors  call,  but  not  very 
often,  because  mamma,  you  know,  can  hardly  ever 
see  them;  and  papa  is  always  at  his  studies." 

"You  studied  with  your  father,  did  you  not?  " 

"Yes;  I  was  never  allowed  to  go  to  school. 
Papa  does  not  believe  in  the  graded  system." 
Mrs.  Somers  smiled.  There  were  so  many  things 
Roger  did  not  believe  in. 

"That  gave  you  the  benefit  of  better  instruction 
in  many  ways,  I  dare  say,"  she  replied;  "but  I  al- 
ways think  it  a  pity  that  young  people  should  not 
be  with  each  other." 


ROGER  HUNT.  259 

"I  don't  think  I  minded  —  much."  It  was  not 
easy  for  Estella  to  speak  of  Nina. 

It  had  been  something  of  a  relief  to  Mrs.  Somers 
that  Estella  cared  so  little  for  society.  She  was 
willing  to  accept  the  full  responsibility  of  this  rela- 
tion for  herself,  but  hesitated,  in  a  way  she  could 
neither  quite  justify  nor  wholly  condemn,  about 
extending  it  to  others.  When  this  looked  cow- 
ardly, she  excused  it  by  saying  that  Estella  had 
inherited  so  much  of  her  father's  self-reliance,  that 
she  required  little  from  other  people;  and  when 
this  kind  of  reasoning  seemed  rather  heartless,  she 
argued  that  the  consequences  of  an  action  like 
Roger  Hunt's  could  not  be  expected  to  end  with 
the  doer,  and  went  to  science  and  the  Bible  for 
justification.  Then  she  turned  about  remorsefully, 
and  treated  the  girl  with  more  kindness  than  be- 
fore. She  became  more  attached  to  her  each  day. 

Professor  Hart  presented  the  new  pupil  to  his 
assistant,  the  first  day  of  her  attendance.  The 
latter  was  seated  at  his  desk,  busily  writing,  and 
raised  his  eyes  in  a  rather  startled  way  when  he 
heard  his  name  spoken.  He  did  not  catch  Es- 
tella's  name,  but  his  face  showed  that  he  recog- 
nized her.  It  was  his  duty  to  enter  her  name  in 
the  register,  and  make  some  further  inquiries  about 
her  studies,  and  Professor  Hart  left  them  together. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  said,  as  he  dipped  his 

in  in  the  ink-bottle,  "but  I  did  not  understand 
name." 

"Miss  Hunt  —  Estella  Hunt,"  was  the  reply. 


260  ROGER  HUNT. 

He  started  slightly,  and  the  pen  remained  sus- 
pended in  his  hand,  while  he  looked  at  her  in  a  way 
that  embarrassed  and  annoyed  her  somewhat. 

A  careful  observer  might  have  noticed  certain 
signs  of  resemblance  in  these  two,  in  a  rather  pe- 
culiar shape  of  the  forehead,  narrow  but  high,  with 
clearly  defined  angles.  The  color  of  the  eyes  was 
the  same,  but  the  young  man's  wore  a  cloudy  and 
downcast  expression,  while  Estella's  were  clear  and 
direct  in  their  gaze,  like  her  father's. 

"Pardon  me,"  he  repeated  once  more,  recollect- 
ing himself,  but  again  looking  at  her  closely.  "  The 
name  arrested  my  attention.  It  —  it  once  be- 
longed to  my  own  family ;  but  it  is  a  very  common 
one." 

The  peculiar  expression,  "It  once  belonged  to 
my  family,"  did  not  strike  Estella,  but  she  felt, 
for  some  reason,  more  annoyed  than  before.  It 
had  always  been  a  source  of  surprise,  and  some 
personal  sensitiveness  in  her,  that  she  had  never 
been  told  she  had  any  relatives  on  either  side. 
She  felt  strangely  ignorant  on  many  points  other 
girls  seemed  to  possess  abundant  knowledge  of. 
Nina  Clarke,  she  used  to  notice,  talked  a  great 
deal  about  uncles  and  aunts  and  cousins,  writing 
letters  to  them  and  receiving  gifts  at  Christmas 
and  on  her  birthday;  but  her  own  connections 
seemed  to  end  with  her  parents.  She  believed  her 
mother  had  once  had  a  brother,  but  whether  he 
was  dead  or  living  she  did  not  know.  The  young 
assistant's  words,  and  the  way  he  looked  at  her, 


BOGER  HUNT.  261 

seemed  intrusive,  and  she  was  glad  to  turn  away 
from  him  and  take  the  seat  he  assigned  her.  Sev- 
eral times  throughout  the  day  she  felt  his  eyes  on 
her,  always  withdrawn  when  they  met  her  own,  and 
her  annoyance  increased.  She  thought  he  was  very 
disagreeable. 

"You  will  be  sure  to  like  Professor  Hart,"  Mrs. 
Somers  said  to  her  that  evening,  inquiring  into  the 
day's  progress.  "He  is  a  great  favorite." 

"I  do  not  recite  to  Professor  Hart,  but  to  Mr. 
Watson,"  said  Estella,  with  some  discontent. 

"Watson  —  Watson,"  the  other  repeated, 
thoughtfully.  "I  wonder  if  that  isn't  the  young 
man  who  called  to  look  at  rooms  a  few  weeks  ago. 
Tall,  with  dark  hair  and  eyes?"  Estella  reflected 
a  moment. 

"Not  so  very  tall,  I  should  say." 

"I'm  sure  it  is  the 'same.  He  wanted  board, 
so  Mrs.  Black  sent  him  across  the  street  to  Mrs. 
Richardson." 

He  was  in  the  neighborhood,  then,  Estella 
thought,  with  a  renewal  of  her  former  feeling. 
She  learned  later  that  Mr.  Watson  was  helping 
himself  through  a  post-graduate  course  by  teach- 
ing. Unlike  Professor  Hart,  he  was  not  a  favorite. 
On  the  contrary,  his  moody  and  unsocial  manners 
made  him  an  object  of  some  antagonism  to  many  of 
the  pupils,  who  took  pains  to  vex  and  tease  him. 
When  Estella  understood  this,  she  began  to  feel  a 
little  sorry  for  him,  and  to  take  his  part.  Each 
preserved  a  shy  bearing  towards  the  other,  but  in 


262  ROGEE  HUNT. 

time  they  grew  better  acquainted.  They  met  each 
other  frequently  on  the  way  to  and  from  school, 
and  one  day  Mr.  Watson  joined  her.  Her  first 
fleeting  dislike  of  him  had  by  this  time  vanished, 
and  given  way,  to  a  feeling  of  kindly  interest.  To 
this  was  soon  added  pride  in  her  teacher's  evident 
liking  for  herself,  and  the  distinction  she  was  gain- 
ing of  being  a  favorite  pupil.  The  difference  in 
their  ages,  about  eight  years,  was  more  noticeable 
now  than  it  would  be  later,  and  made  the  relation 
a  more  flattering  one  to  Estella.  At  the  end  of 
two  months  they  were  good  friends. 

By  degrees  Estella  had  learned  something,  but 
not  all,  of  Mr.  Watson's  history;  that  he  had  lived 
alone,  without  brothers  or  sisters,  in  the  home  of 
an  aunt  who  had  brought  him  up,  but  who  died 
when  he  was  in  college. 

"Then  your  father  and  mother  died  when  you 
were  very  young?"  she  said  to  him,  one  day,  after 
listening  to  some  of  these  revelations. 

"My  mother  died  when  I  was  eight  years  old." 

"And  your  father?  "     He  hesitated  a  moment. 

"I  lost  him  some  time  before."  She  listened 
with  a  sympathetic  face. 

"I  never  had  any  brothers  or  sisters  either,"  she 
said  simply,  and  after  a  moment's  silence.  He 
looked  at  her  gravely. 

"Tell  me  something  of  your  home."  She  replied 
that  there  was  very  little  to  tell.  He  gathered  the 
mental  picture  of  a  country -like  home,  resting  in 
an  atmosphere  of  refined  and  scholarly  leisure, 


BOGER  HUNT. 

marred  only  by  the  mother's  long  illness.  Rather 
ideal,  he  thought. 

E  stella  said  to  herself  she  was  a  very  fortunate 
girl  to  make  two  such  friends  as  Mrs.  Somers  and 
Mr.  Watson.  She  had  grown  more  accustomed  to 
her  new  life,  and  was  enjoying  it.  She  had  not 
forgotten  her  mother,  but  pain  here  was  softened 
to  tender  regret.  The  right  of  youth  to  its  own 
hopeful  outlook  was  beginning  to  assert  itself. 
The  light  of  happy  expectation  glowed  in  her  eyes, 
young  joy  and  trust  warmed  her  heart. 

Mrs.  Somers  watched  the  growing  intimacy  be- 
tween Estella  and  her  teacher  with  puzzled  dis- 
approval. If  a  particle  of  youthful  silliness  had 
revealed  itself  here,  if  Estella  was  not  so  perfectly 
frank  about  it,  she  felt  she  would  have  known  bet- 
ter how  to  deal  with  it ;  but  evidently  nothing  was 
further  from  the  minds  of  these  serious  young  peo- 
ple than  a  flirtation.  She  did  not  like  Mr.  Wat- 
son very  well,  she  did  not  know  why,  and  would 
have  been  glad  of  an  excuse  to  break  off  the  ac- 
quaintance. 

"She  isn't  the  least  bit  in  love  with  him,"  she 
said  to  herself.  "  Such  a  thing  never  entered  her 
head.  Yet  she  always  stands  up  for  him.  I  sup- 
pose it 's  because  nobody  else  can  get  along  with 
him.  I  hope  the  girl  is  n't  going  to  develop  her 
father's  passion  for  being  in  the  minority." 

What  the  nature  of  Assistant  Watson's  feelings 
for  his  pupil  might  be  she  felt  less  sure  of,  and,  as 
far  as  he  was  concerned,  less  interested  in.  He 


264  ROGER  HUNT. 

had  a  strange  way  of  looking  at  her,  she  had  no- 
ticed, when  she  saw  them  together,  but  his  manner 
was  too  grave  and  composed  for  a  lover's.  It 
showed  his  poverty-stricken  condition,  socially,  she 
thought,  with  some  irritation,  to  fasten  himself  on 
a  young  girl  in  this  way. 

In  the  mean  time  if  any  youthful  folly  were  going 
on,  nothing  could  tend  to  correct  it  so  well  as  a 
little  timely  satire  and  ridicule ;  and  Mr.  Watson 
came  in  for  more  than  one  little  shaft  from  this 
direction. 

"  Why  does  not  the  man  assert  himself  a  lit- 
tle?" she  asked  Estella  one  evening,  when  they 
were  sitting  together  in  her  room,  and  the  latter 
had  been  telling  her  about  the  unruly  behavior  of 
one  of  her  classmates  that  day.  "Why  does  he 
let  a  silly  young  woman  torment  him  so,  and  break 
up  a  class?  He  ought  to  be  ashamed  to  permit 
such  things! " 

"It  is  the  young  woman  who  ought  to  be 
ashamed,  I  think,"  said  Estella. 

"Very  likely,  but  a  teacher  must  either  win  the 
respect  of  his  pupils  or  compel  it.  Mr.  Watson 
isn't  one  of  the  winning  kind,  I  know"  — 

"You  don't  understand  him,  Mrs.  Somers.  He 
has  been  very  unhappy  all  his  life."  There  was 
faint  reproach  in  her  tone,  and  a  hint  of  mystery, 
that  made  the  other  look  at  her  in  surprise. 

"Unhappy!"  she  scoffed.  "What  has  Mr. 
Watson  been  doing  to  make  himself  unhappy?" 

"It  isn't  what  he  has  done  himself,  it  is  what 


ROGER  HUNT.  265 

other  people  have  done,"  with  more  mystery  than 
before. 

"That's  a  very  shallow  cause  of  unhappiness. 
If  Mr.  Watson  has  only  reached  the  point  where 
he  is  repenting  of  some  one's  else  misconduct,  he 
will  do  very  well." 

"If  you  knew  his  history,  Mrs.  Somers,  I  don't 
think  you  would  speak  like  that." 

"His  history!  So  Mr.  Watson  has  a  history?" 
She  looked  at  the  young  girl  sharply.  What  sen- 
timental disclosures  had  she  been  made  to  listen  to 
by  this  conceited  and  gloomy  admirer?  Estella 
returned  the  look  calmly. 

"What  has  he  been  telling  you?" 

"I  don't  know  as  he  would  be  willing  I  should 
repeat  it,"  said  Estella  thoughtfully. 

"  His  willingness  has  nothing  to  do  with  it.  You 
are  to  tell  me  everything  he  said  to  you."  The 
girl  looked  at  her  quietly,  as  before. 

"After  all,  I  don't  see  why  I  should  not  tell 
you."  It  was  plain  the  springs  of  obedience  were 
within.  "And  some  of  it  was  so  strange,"  leaning 
back  in  her  chair,  looking  meditatively  at  Raphael's 
head  of  Paul  on  the  opposite  wall.  "I  don't  think 
he  was  to  blame  for  telling  me." 

"I  can  tell  that  better  when  I  have  heard  what 
it  is.  Come,"  ironically,  "what  is  Mr.  Watson's 
'history'?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  mean  he  told  me  all.  Only  his 
life  has  been  so  different  from  most  young  men's. 
He  lost  both  parents  when  very  young,  and  was 


266  EOGEE  HUNT. 

brought  up  by  an  aunt.  His  mother  died,  but  his 
father,  • —  he  has  known  nothing  about  him  for 
years.  I  think  he  must  have  done  something  that 
brought  some  kind  of  disgrace  on  the  family.  Mr. 
Watson  didn't  tell  me  just  what,  but  it  seemed  to 
distress  and  anger  him  so  to  speak  of  his  father." 

"Well,  go  on,"  said  Mrs.  Somers,  as  Estella 
paused.  There  had  been  nothing  very  serious  so 
far,  but  she  felt  unaccountably  nervous. 

"There  isn't  much  more.  As  I  say,  his  aunt 
adopted  him  and  gave  him  her  name.  That  is  the 
strangest  part  of  it,"  she  went  on,  leaning  forward, 
and  clasping  her  hands  over  one  knee.  "  His  real 
name  isn't  Watson  at  all.  It  is  Hunt." 

"What !  "     Mrs.  Somers  sprung  to  her  feet. 

"Just  like  mine !  Is  n't  that  odd?  "  said  the  girl 
dreamily.  "What  is  the  matter,  Mrs.  Somers?" 
looking  up  at  her  in  alarm.  "Are  you  ill?  "  and 
she  rose  to  her  feet. 

"No  —  no.  Go  on.  Yes,  it  is  odd,  as  you  say," 
and  she  tried  to  laugh.  "I  wish  you  would  open 
a  window,  Estella,"  and  she  sank  weakly  down  on 
her  chair  again. 

"Never  mind,"  she  said,  as  the  girl  rushed  to  a 
window,  tried  to  open  it,  and  could  not.  "I  feel 
better  now,"  but  she  leaned  her  head  against  the 
back  of  her  chair;  her  face  was  white  and  hag- 
gard. 

"You  are  really  ill,  Mrs.  Somers,"  said  Estella, 
coming  back  to  her  side.  "We  must  have  walked 
too  far  in  the  hot  sun  this  afternoon." 


ROGER  HUNT.  267 

"  Yes  —  yes,  that  is  it.  I  will  lie  down  a  little 
while.  No,  dear,  you  needn't  stay,"  as  the  other 
began  to  make  preparations  for  her  comfort. 
"Go  to  your  room.  I  shall  be  better  alone,  for 
a  while."  But  Estella  would  not  go  until  she  had 
seen  her  friend  lie  down,  placed  a  pillow  under  her 
head,  and  thrown  a  covering  over  her.  It  seemed 
a  small  eternity  to  Mrs.  Somers  while  she  submit- 
ted to  these  cares.  At  last  Estella  turned,  reluc- 
tantly, to  leave  her;  but  reaching  the  door  she 
heard  her  name  called  sharply,  and  came  quickly 
back  to  the  lounge. 

"Estella,  you  are  not  to  stir  out  of  the  house 
again  to-night,"  and  she  clutched  the  girl's  hand 
in  hers. 

"  Why,  no,  Mrs.  Somers ;  I  was  not  intending  to 
go  out,"  the  other  said  in  surprise.  "It  is  nine 
o'clock."  She  wondered  if  Mrs.  Somers  were  go- 
ing to  have  a  fever.  Reluctantly  she  turned  again, 
at  her  bidding,  and  left  her. 

Alone,  Mrs.  Somers  sprang  from  her  place, 
throwing  the  covering  to  one  side,  then  rising  to 
her  feet,  went  to  the  door  and  locked  it,  and  stood 
still  to  think. 

How  could  she  have  failed  to  identify  Charles 
Watson  at  once,  when  she  first  heard  his  name? 
But  how  could  she  be  expected  to  do  so?  She 
had,  in  truth,  as  many  others  had,  remembered 
Roger  Hunt's  flight  from  home,  chiefly  in  its  rela- 
tion to  himself  and  her  own  disappointment  in  him. 
Occasionally  the  images  of  the  severe-faced  woman 


268  ROGER  HUNT. 

he  had  left  behind,  and  the  child  towards  whom 
she  had  taken  a  mother's  part,  had  come  back  to 
her,  but  it  had  been  years  since  she  had  thought 
of  either.  Fear,  indignation,  despair,  swept  over 
her  in  turn  as  the  situation  unrolled  before  her. 

"It  is  ghastly!  "  she  exclaimed. 

Her  indignation  darted  swiftly  from  one  object 
to  another:  first  towards  Charles  Watson.  Why 
had  he  told  Estella  his  miserable  story?  What 
right  had  he  to  throw  himself  on  her  sympathy  in 
this  way  ?  Why  was  he  there  —  in  Monroe  —  at  all  ? 
Then  she  turned  against  herself.  Would  she  never 
learn  to  let  people  alone ;  to  stop  trying  to  play  at 
Providence  ?  Because  a  girl  had  looked  at  her  with 
appealing  eyes,  she  must  go  and  get  herself  mixed 
up  again  in  the  affairs  of  a  man  like  Roger  Hunt ! 
Because  she  knew  the  girl's  history,  she  must  con- 
ceive the  fantastic  notion  that  she  might  be  able  to 
help  avert  natural  results!  She  remembered  the 
offer  she  had  received  a  few  days  before  from  the 
Philadelphia  "Peacemaker,"  to  go  to  Toronto  and 
report  the  proceedings  of  the  Red  Cross  Society; 
and  declared  she  would  reverse  her  first  decision 
and  accept  it.  She  would  leave  on  the  first  train 
the  next  day! 

Then,  ashamed  of  her  childishness,  her  anger 
flamed  up  in  another  and  more  just  direction,  as 
she  remembered  the  one  who  had  caused  all  this 
trouble.  As  she  traced  the  far-reaching  effects  of 
Roger  Hunt's  action,  there  seemed  a  kind  of  moral 
enormity  in  it.  What  would  be  his  sensations 


ROGER  HUNT.  269 

when  he  heard  of  this  latest  development  in  the 
drama  he  had  inaugurated?  Would  he  care? 
Would  he  be  at  all  disturbed?  Would  he  perceive 
his  own  accountability  towards  these  two  young 
lives  it  should  be  his  first  duty  to  protect.  She 
doubted  it,  and  the  doubt  whetted  her.  anger  against 
him  anew.  She  cried  out  in  her  heart  against  the 
law  that  condemns  the  innocent  to  suffer  with  the 
guilty.  She  longed  to  make  him  feel  only  one 
tenth  the  misery  and  shame  the  full  knowledge  of 
himself  had  power  to  inflict  on  others.  The  de- 
sire to  punish,  to  reveal  him  to  himself,  to  repudi- 
ate, and  place  miles  of  spiritual  distance  between 
herself  and  him,  filled  her. 

She  seated  herself  at  her  desk,  and  began  to 
write.  Sheet  after  sheet  was  filled  and  pushed 
aside.  Scorn,  rebuke,  entreaty,  angry  protest, 
flowed  into  the  written  lines.  Her  excitement  in- 
creased, and  her  subject  grew  in  the  dimensions  of 
the  moral  indignation  in  which  she  enveloped  it, 
until  even  she  began  to  perceive  exaggerated,  some- 
times grotesque  effects.  But  she  was  in  no  mood 
to  discriminate  and  choose,  and  hurried  on.  She 
had  put  on  the  black  robe  of  judgment.  Let  the 
recording  angel  excuse  and  plead  for  Roger  Hunt, 
if  he  was  so  inclined.  She  had  done  that  for  the 
last  time. 

At  the  end  she  leaned  back  in  her  chair  with  a 
long  sigh  of  exhaustion.  Then  she  gathered  the 
sheets  rapidly  together,  folded  them,  directed  and 
sealed  the  envelope.  Rising  and  stepping  quickly 


270  BOGER  HUNT. 

across  the  room,  she  touched  a  bell-button  in  the 
wall. 

"Post  this  letter  to-night,"  she  said  to  the  ser- 
vant who  answered  it. 

"If  I  could  be  so  foolish  as  to  repent,  it  would 
be  too  late  now,"  was  her  thought. 

As  she  reflected  on  what  remained  to  be  done,  she 
saw  she  had  performed  the  least  important  duty 
first;  the  letter  to  Estella's  father  might  have 
waited,  the  question  of  Estella  herself  was  immedi- 
ate and  pressing.  How  to  prevent  Charles  Wat- 
son from  imparting  any  more  of  his  personal  history 
to  his  willing  and  sympathetic  listener  —  that  was 
the  point  to  be  settled,  and  at  once.  Mrs.  Somers 
decided  here  that  the  hardest  way  was  the  easiest, 
as  well  as  the  surest.  The  next  day  was  Saturday ; 
she  would  get  rid  of  Estella,  and  send  a  message 
to  Mr.  Watson,  asking  him  to  call  on  her. 

Something  tugged  at  her  heart-strings,  and  just 
before  undressing  she  slipped  out  of  her  room  into 
Estella's.  It  was  dark,  and  she  could  only  see  the 
outline  of  the  dark  hair  streaming  across  the  pil- 
low. The  breath  of  the  young  sleeper  came  and 
went  lightly,  and  one  could  fancy  she  was  smiling. 
The  tears  rushed  to  Mrs.  Somers's  eyes.  She  bent 
over  the  bed,  an  immense  pity  swelling  in  her 
heart.  Ah!  the  innocent  suffering  of  this  world, 
she  thought  again,  and  recalled  the  words  thought- 
lessly spoken  a  few  hours  before,  which  now  seemed 
so  shallow,  about  the  unreality  of  the  suffering 
that  does  not  spring  from  our  own  mistakes.  It 


ROGER  HUNT.  271 

was  true  in  a  sense,  of  course,  but  what  is  the  use 
of  trying  to  teach  such  lessons  to  the  young  ?  Mrs. 
Somers  herself  felt  very  old  as  she  stood  there. 
She  thought  again  of  Roger  Hunt.  What  was  he 
doing  now?  Conning  a  Latin  sentence  from  Lu- 
cretius, or  counting  the  pieces  in  an  ancient  bit  of 
mosaic,  proud  of  the  distinction  such  lofty  pur- 
suits conferred  above  other  men,  looking  piously 
to  heaven  and  a  grateful  posterity  to  reward  him. 
She  was  glad  she  had  written  the  letter.  '  Going 
back  to  her  room,  she  extinguished  the  light  and 
crept  into  bed,  but  not  to  sleep,  any  more  than  on 
a  certain  night  eighteen  years  before. 

The  next  morning  she  carried  out  her  plans  very 
successfully.  Estella  was  out  of  the  house,  and  she 
sat  in  her  room  awaiting  Mr.  Watson.  Up  to  this 
time  she  had  given  very  little  thought  to  his  connec- 
tion with  the  case  she  had  taken  in  hand,  and  felt 
free  to  disclaim  all  accountability  in  this  direction ; 
but  she  was  conscious  of  compunction  rising  in  a 
new  quarter  when  he  entered.  She  had  thought 
of  him  before  as  an  unfortunate  and  rather  dis- 
agreeable young  man,  whose  failing  popularity  was 
due,  she  suspected,  to  his  own  morose  and  difficult 
temper.  Now  she  could  not  but  look  at  him  some- 
what differently,  though  she  meant  to  keep  feeling 
strictly  in  hand,  be  very  cool,  and  if  necessary  a 
little  severe  with  him.  This  was  simply  a  matter 
of  moral  economy;  the  young  assistant,  she  was 
willing  to  admit,  deserved  sympathy,  but  hers  was 
promised  beforehand  to  some  one  else.  She  fortified 


272  ROGER  HUNT. 

herself  in  this  resolution  by  the  thought  that  Mr. 
Watson  was  a  man,  and  could  take  care  of  himself. 

The  first  thing  she  noticed,  as  he  stood  with  un- 
covered head  before  her,  was  a  resemblance  to  Es- 
tella,  but  as  she  had  never  noted  anything  of  the 
kind  before,  she  ascribed  it  to  a  freaky  imagination. 
It  suggested,  again,  however,  that  he,  too,  might 
have  claims  to  assert.  It  would  be  impossible  to 
treat  him  as  if  he  were  an  enemy. 

He  responded  slowly  to  her  invitation  to  be 
seated,  while  the  puzzled  look  on  his  face  re- 
mained. She  placed  herself  opposite  him,  and  a 
moment  of  rather  awkward  silence  followed. 

"I  sent  for  you,"  she  began  at  last,  "because  I 
wished  to  speak  to  you  about  a  matter  of  impor- 
tance." She  paused,  and  he  bowed  gravely,  with- 
out proffering  any  response. 

"Important  to  yourself,  I  mean,"  and  paused 
again ;  but  this  time  he  only  waited. 

"Estella  —  Miss  Hunt  —  has  been  telling  me 
something  you  recently  told  her."  He  flushed,  and 
moved  uneasily  in  his  chair. 

"Pray  do  not  think  I  mean  to  intrude  on  mat- 
ters that  do  not  concern  me,"  she  added,  "but  I  — 
I  feel  you  ought  to  know  something  of  Miss  Hunt's 
history." 

"Why  did  she  repeat  what  I  told  her?"  the 
young  man  broke  out.  "It  was  a  violation  of  con- 
fidence." 

"Excuse  me,  but  do  you  think  you  have  a  right 
to  impart  confidences  in  such  a  direction?  She 


ROGEE  HUNT.  273 

did  quite  right  to  tell  me.  I  stand  here  in  the 
place  of  her  mother.  Estella  is  very  young.  The 
sympathies  of  such  a  girl  are  easily  aroused;  so 
easily,  you  will  pardon  me  for  saying  that  I  can- 
not understand  what  satisfaction  any  one  in  your 
position  can  derive  from  them." 

This  was  not  at  all  the  line  she  had  expected  to 
take.  The  angry  blood  swept  like  a  wave  over  his 
face,  and  he  rose  to  his  feet. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  madam,  but  you  are  using 
language  and  attributing  motives  to  me  I  cannot 
permit  myself  to  hear  and  be  accused  of.  It  is 
impossible  any  one  should  understand  my  motive  in 
speaking  to  Miss  Hunt." 

"That  is  where  you  are  mistaken,"  she  said 
quietly,  feeling  more  kindly  towards  him,  now  that 
she  had  tried  the  edge  of  her  first  irritation  against 
him.  "I  understand  your  motive  perfectly." 

He  smiled  bitterly. 

"I  understand  it  better  than  you  do  yourself, 
perhaps.  Sit  down  again,  please."  There  was  a 
gentle  authority  in  her  words  that  compelled  at- 
tention, but  he  hesitated  and  looked  at  her  distrust- 


"If  you  sent  for  me  merely  to  warn  and  repri- 
mand me,"  with  an  icy  smile,  "we  may  consider 
the  object  of  my  visit  accomplished." 

"  Nonsense  !  What  right  have  I  to  reprimand 
you?  It  is  not  of  you  I  am  thinking."  This  had 
a  rude  sound,  and  she  corrected  herself.  "I  mean 
I  am  thinking  of  Estella.  I  am  very  anxious  about 


274  ROGER  HUNT. 

her.  I  want  you  to  help  me."  He  looked  sur- 
prised and  newly  perplexed  at  this,  and  slowly 
resumed  his  seat. 

"How  well  do  you  remember  your  father?  "  Mrs. 
Somers  asked,  after  a  few  minutes'  waiting.  He 
looked  at  her  with  more  surprise  still,  and  renewed 
distrust. 

"I  have  a  good  reason  for  asking,"  she  contin- 
ued. "I  knew  your  father." 

Her  heart  beat  fast.  To  her  excited  fancy  it 
seemed  she  need  tell  no  more.  Surely  he  would 
be  able  to  put  two  and  two  together. 

"You  knew  my  father!  "  he  repeated,  and  con- 
tinued to  look  at  her. 

"  I  knew  him  very  well.  He  —  he  was  a  friend 
of  my  husband."  Here  she  paused  mentally  to 
cross  and  objurgate  herself.  ("There!  Go  and 
lay  it  at  poor  George's  door,  who  is  in  heaven,  and 
can't  help  himself.")  "I  knew  your  father  and 
your  mother  both,"  she  went  on  aloud.  She  looked 
at  him  keenly  at  this  reference  to  his  mother,  but 
was  unable  to  conjecture  what  memories  it  aroused. 

"I  have  long  since  ceased  to  think  I  ever  had  a 
father,"  her  listener  said,  after  a  brief  pause. 

"Do  you  mean  you  have  heard  no  news  of  him 
in  all  these  years?  " 

"Nothing;  I  wish  to  hear  nothing."  She  did 
not  heed  this. 

"Then  you  did  not  know  that  after  your  mo- 
ther's death,  your  father  married  the  woman  who 
—  that  he  and  Miss  Thaxter  were  married?  " 


ROGER  HUNT.  275 

His  lip  curled  scornfully. 

"What  difference  does  that  make?" 

"I  did  not  say  it  made  any  difference.  Please 
do  not  think  I  am  defending  him.  They  were 
married,  and  had  a  child, — a  daughter."  She 
caught  her  breath  again,  and  waited,  but  he  looked 
at  her  with  dull  eyes.  His  mind  was  less  occupied 
with  what  she  was  saying  than  with  painful  mem- 
ories of  his  own. 

"  After  they  were  married  they  returned  to  this 
country.  The  little  girl  was  born  over  here,  I  be- 
lieve." 

"All  this  is  nothing  to  me,  madam,"  he  said, 
moving  impatiently. 

"  But  think ;  you  may  meet  him  some  day.  No- 
thing is  more  likely,  in  these  days,  when  everybody 
goes  everywhere.  Can't  you  see  what  I  mean?  " 
she  asked  with  an  imploring  accent,  leaning  to- 
wards him.  He  drew  back  and  turned  a  little  pale, 
but  even  then  less  with  any  suspicion  of  the  spe- 
cific thing  she  had  to  say,  than  from  a  sudden  sense 
of  impending  evil. 

"Suppose  he  were  to  come  here,"  she  urged,  "to 
see  Estella." 

"To  see  Estella!"  He  looked  at  her  blankly. 
"My  God  !  You  mean  "  He  sat  staring  at 
her,  stiff  and  motionless. 

"Oh,  I  am  so  sorry  for  you,"  she  broke  out,  the 
tears  rolling  from  her  eyes.  "I  would  give  the 
world  to  spare  you."  He  rose  dizzily  to  his  feet, 
keeping  his  hand  a  moment  on  his  chair. 


276  ROGER  HUNT. 

"You  mean  that,  then? "  he  said  in  a  low  voice. 
"Her  father  is  mine.  We  —  we  are" —  A  sin- 
gular expression  flitted  across  his  face. 

The  tears  continued  to  stream  down  hers  as  she 
looked  up  at  him.  He  stooped  mechanically  and 
took  up  his  hat  from  the  floor,  then  turned  towards 
the  door. 

"You  must  not  go  yet,"  she  cried.  "We  must 
decide  something." 

"What  is  there  to  decide?" 

"About  Estella."  She  rose  and  went  towards 
him.  "She  knows  nothing  of  this,  you  must  re- 
member. We  must  never  let  her  know.  That  is 
the  reason  I  have  told  you."  + 

"You  did  right  to  tell  me.  Do  you  mean  Miss 
Hunt  knows  nothing  of  her  father's  first  mar- 
riage? " 

"Nothing.  If  she  were  to  know  that,  she  must 
know  the  rest.  It  would  kill  her.  She  is  devot- 
edly attached  to  her  mother.  If  she  were  to  learn 
anything  against  her  "  — 

Her  listener  reflected  a  while,  with  bent  head, 
and  serious  face. 

"You  need  have  no  fears  for  Miss  Hunt  on  my 
account,"  he  said,  raising  his  eyes  to  her.  This 
pleased  her,  but  was  not  quite  definite  enough. 
She  began  some  words  of  sympathy,  but  he  checked 
her  with  his  hand. 

"What  shall  you  do?"  she  then  asked. 

"Do?" 

"I  mean,  shall  —  shall  you  go  away?  "     She  was 


ROGER  HUNT.  277 

a  little  ashamed  of  the  question,  and  the  wish  it 
implied,  but  it  would  come. 

"Go  away!     Why  should  I  go  away? " 

"Shall  you  see  Estella,  then?"  A  slight  frown 
creased  his  forehead. 

"Why  should  I  not  see  Estella?"  he  asked. 

"It  would  impose  too  severe  a  restraint  on  you. 
You  would  be  unable  to  keep  things  to  yourself." 
The  old  bitter  smile  rose  to  his  lips. 

"I  have  kept  things  to  myself  all  my  life." 

"  But  if  her  father  should  come  !  " 

He  had  not  thought  of  this,  and  reflected  on  it  a 
minute.  "It  will  make  no  difference.  We  shall 
not  sef  each  other." 

"But  he  knows,"  she  replied  quickly,  and  for 
the  first  time  felfto  little  conscience-smitten  about 
her  letter.  "I  —  I  have  written  to  him,"  she 
added.  He  looked  at  her  with  new  bewilderment. 
This  struck  him  as  a  singular  confession  from  one 
so  careful  to  extort  promises  of  secrecy  from  other 
people.  At  the  same  time  a  half -defiant  gleam 
lighted  his  face.  She  knew  what  it  meant;  he 
would  not  object  to  meet  this  father. 

"The  consequences  be  on  his  own  head,  then," 
the  young  man  said  harshly.  She  pitied  him,  but 
she  was  a  little  displeased  too. 

"I  see.  You  wish  to  be  avenged.  You  think 
only  of  yourself ;  you  will  make  a  scene  and  a  scan- 
dal. You  care  nothing  for  Estella." 

His  face  grew  grave  again.  He  was  silent  a 
moment.  "I  will  think  the  matter  over,"  he  said, 
and  left  her. 


278  ROGER  HUNT. 

"  What  brutes  men  are!  "Mrs.  Somers  exclaimed 
to  herself,  when  alone  once  more.  "Always  want- 
ing to  spring  at  each  other's  throats  ! "  With  this 
superficial  irritation  she  relieved  the  deeper  strain 
the  interview  had  caused  her. 

If  regrets  for  the  letter  she  had  written  returned 
to  her,  they  were  useless.  Fate  or  Providence,  it 
soon  seemed,  had  not  left  things  to  her  manage- 
ment entirely.  That  night  at  supper,  Estella  told 
her  she  had  written  a  long  letter  to  her  mother,  re- 
lating to  her,  as  she  had  to  her  friend,  Mr.  Wat- 
son's story.  It  was  strange  Mrs.  Somers  had  not 
thought  of  this  possibility,  but  she  could  not  think 
of  everything.  She  was  by  this  time  tired  out, 
helpless  and  hopeless ;  ready  to  wash  her  hands  of 
what  might  happen  next.  She  said  to  herself  that 
Destiny  might  rule  hereafter.  Her  own  jurisdiction 
seemed  drawing  to  a  close. 


XVIII. 

THE  life  of  the  Hunt  household  moved  on  still 
more  quietly  after  Estella's  departure.  Roger 
made  regular  visits  to  his  wife's  room  two  or  three 
times  a  day,  shutting  himself  the  remaining  time 
in  his  study,  paying  an  occasional  social  visit  to 
his  neighbor,  Mrs.  Clarke,  and  one  or  two  other 
friends. 

To  his  observation  there  seemed  little  change  in 
Eleanor,  but  to  the  more  watchful  eyes  of  Mrs. 
Saunders,  she  was  losing  strength  daily,  though  by 
slow  degrees.  She  had  not  risen  from  her  bed 
since  Estella  went  away,  and  passed  hours  in  that 
half -waking  trance  in  which  the  body  lies  numb 
and  passive  beneath  the  action  of  wasting  physical 
forces.  The  only  thing  that  seemed  thoroughly  to 
arouse  her  these  last  weeks  was  Estella's  letters. 
She  kept  the  one  last  received  near  her  until  the 
next  one  came,  and  Mrs.  Saunders  often  noticed 
her  lying  with  her  hand  under  the  pillow  clasping 
the  little  missive  that  symbolized  the  strongest  tie 
which  held  her  to  earth. 

Eleanor  had  been  a  good  deal  agitated  when  she 
learned  of  Roger's  meeting  with  Mrs.  Somers,  and 
that  Estella  had  been  left  in  her  care.  She  was 
deeply  grateful,  though  unable  to  learn  from 


280  ROGER  HUNT. 

Roger,  who  spoke  with  much  reserve  on  the  sub- 
ject, just  what  construction  to  put  upon  her  ac- 
tion. She  had  expressed  a  desire  to  write  Mrs. 
Somers  and  thank  her,. but  he  had  promptly  dis- 
couraged this.  As  Estella's  letters  reached  her, 
and  she  saw  how  much  she  was  coming  to  regard 
this  new  friend,  she  grew  not  only  reconciled  to  the 
necessity  of  parting,  but  thankful  for  it.  The 
need  of  further  effort  on  her  part  even  here  was 
slipping  fast  from  her,  the  duty  of  living  growing 
smaller. 

Roger's  absence  from  home,  when  he  took  Es- 
tella  to  Monroe,  had  been  so  short  that  the  lessons 
with  his  pupil  suffered  no  interruption.  The  days 
were  growing  warmer  now,  but  Nina's  interest  in 
her  studies  did  not  flag.  She  had  never  again  ex- 
pressed the  wish  to  discontinue  them,  and  her 
mother  was  highly  gratified  at  the  change  in  her, 
the  results,  she  believed,  of  her  own  wholesome  dis- 
cipline. The  walks  to  the  river  were  kept  up,  and 
Nina  was  growing  something  of  an  expert  in  an- 
cient arrow-heads  and  picture-writing.  The  sea- 
son was  also  taken  advantage  of  to  begin  a  course 
in  botany. 

One  day  at  the  close  of  the  lesson,  when  Estella 
had  been  absent  from  home  nearly  two  months, 
Nina  extended  an  invitation,  in  her  mother's  name, 
to  dine  with  them  the  following  Saturday,  with 
a  small  company  of  friends,  "to  meet  my  uncle 
Mortimer,"  she  explained. 

Roger  expressed  his  thanks,  but  frowned  a  little, 
also. 


EOGER  HUNT.  281 

"I  don't  like  dinner-parties,"  he  said. 

"Mamma  is  very  anxious  you  should  meet  my 
uncle.  He  is  her  youngest  brother ;  we  are  all  very 
proud  of  him." 

Roger  smiled  and  asked  the  reason  why;  but 
did  not  pay  much  attention  to  the  answer,  gathering 
only  that  the  gentleman  in  question  was  a  success- 
ful journalist  in  a  large  Eastern  city. 

"Suppose  I  forget  it?  "  he  asked  teasingly,  when 
she  renewed  the  invitation.  She  pouted  a  little. 

"Then  mamma  will  be  greatly  disappointed." 

"I  should  like  better  to  know  how  mamma's 
daughter  will  feel." 

"You  will  have  to  come,  and  find  out  that  for 
yourself,"  she  replied;  a  rather  happy  retort  for 
Nina,  at  which  they  both  laughed. 

"I  will  help  you  to  remember,"  she  said.  "I 
will  mark  the  day."  She  took  a  pen  from  the 
desk,  with  the  freedom  she  was  now  coming  to  feel 
in  these  surroundings.  "Not  in  black  ink,"  she 
said,  drawing  the  pen  back  from  one  side  of  the 
double  inkstand,  and  dipping  it  in  the  other,  then 
drawing  a  red  line  round  the  date  on  a  printed  cal- 
endar near  by.  "There,  now  you  can't  forget." 

"I  might,  if  I  didn't  know  who  put  it  there," 
he  said.  "  We  ought  to  mark  all  the  Mondays  and 
Thursdays  in  that  way,"  he  added. 

"Why?"  asked  Nina,  with  her  ready  flush. 

"It  isn't  necessary,  though;  they  are  red-letter 
days  as  it  is."  The  flush  deepened,  and  she  kid 
down  the  pen. 


282  ROGER  HUNT. 

"Shall  I  tell  mamma  you  are  coming?"  she 
asked,  turning  to  go.  "She  will  be  sure  to  ask." 

"Tell  her  yes,  if  I  can  sit  by  you, "he  replied  in 
the  same  bantering  tone. 

She  shook  her  head.  "I  am  sure  she  will  not 
consent  to  that.  She  always  puts  me  at  the  lower 
end  of  the  table." 

"She  does!     Where  will  she  put  me,  then?" 

"You  will  be  at  mamma's  left,  I  should  think. 
Of  course  my  uncle  will  be  the  principal  guest," 
she  added,  apologetically. 

"Well,  I  'm  used  to  that,"  said  Roger.  "The 
theologians  consigned  me  to  the  left  hand,  long 
ago.  That  is  the  place  of  punishment,  you  know," 
he  explained  to  her.  He  was  often  obliged  to  ex- 
plain things  here,  that  he  would  have  found  it  a 
severe  trial  to  elsewhere.  Nina  laughed. 

"It  is  not  so  at  a  dinner-party;  it  is  the  second 
place  of  honor." 

"Indeed!  And  what  are  the  duties  of  the  lucky 
occupant  of  the  second  place  of  honor?" 

"I  don't  know,"  thoughtfully.  "I  think,  per- 
haps, mamma  may- have  you  take  out  the  rector's 
wife."  Roger  made  a  wry  face.  The  rector's 
wife  belonged  to  the  order  of  women  he  especially 
disliked ;  she  reminded  him  of  Mrs.  Hamilton. 

"Rector  James  is  to  be  there,  then?  " 

"Of  course;  and  I  —  I  am  afraid  I  have  made  a 
mistake.  I  think  the  second  place  may  be  given 
to  him.  He  is  the  minister,  you  know." 

"  Then  it  will  be  his  place  to  take  out  his  wife  ? 
Serves  him  right !  " 


BOGEE  HUNT.  283 

"Oh,  no,"  laughing  again. 

"Any  way,  I  shall  be  a  little  nearer  the  lower 
regions  —  where  you  are !  "  Her  ever-returning 
blush  came  back  at  this,  and  she  opened  the  door. 

"You  are  very  wicked  to-day,"  she  said,  and 
made  her  escape. 

With  some  inward  grumbling  Roger  dressed  to 
go  out  on  the  evening  named.  He  looked  into  Elea- 
nor's room  a  moment  to  tell  her  where  he  was 
going,  then  walked  leisurely  up  the  hill  to  his  des- 
tination. One  of  the  numerous  minor  protests  by 
which  he  kept  the  spirit  of  social  revolt  in  exercise 
was  seen  in  his  hatred  of  a  dress-coat;  so  he  ap- 
peared as  Rector  James  did,  in  a  long  frock  gar- 
ment, and,  with  his  slight  physique,  and  intellectual 
countenance,  looked  even  more  priestly  than  he 
did.  If  Nina  had  given  him  her  uncle's  full  name 
he  did  not  recall  it,  nor  had  he  been  sufficiently  in- 
terested even  to  notice  the  omission.  He  wore  his 
usual  look  of  mingled  abstraction  and  indifference 
as  he  entered  the  parlor,  and  which  his  hostess 
found  discouraging. 

Mrs.  Clarke  stepped  forward  to  meet  him  in  a 
trained  gown  of  crimson  silk.  Near  her  stood  her 
husband,  trying  to  look  at  ease  in  his  evening  cos- 
tume. He  greeted  Roger  with  mixed  hauteur  and 
carelessness,  to  let  him  see  he  neither  liked  nor 
was  afraid  of  him.  Farther  down  the  room  stood 
Nina,  dressed,  in  white,  and  talking  with  Rector 
James,  but  throwing  a  quick  pleased  look  in  the 
new  guest's  direction.  The  guest  of  the  evening 


284  EOGEE  HUNT. 

was  standing  near,  but  with  face  partly  hidden, 
conversing  with  his  latest  introduction.  Mrs. 
Clarke  placed  a  hand  on  his  arm  and  he  turned 
towards  her.  Roger  saw  and  recognized  him  first, 
and  was  thus  prepared,  by  a  second's  warning,  for 
whatever  was  to  come.  The  other  started  percep- 
tibly when  he  saw  Roger,  and  heard  his  name.  It 
was  Mortimer  Gray.  Other  guests  appearing,  the 
hostess'  attention  was  immediately  engaged.  The 
two  men  looked  at  each  other  squarely  an  instant, 
a  flash  of  defiance  in  the  eyes  of  one,  indignant 
asking  astonishment  in  the  other's.  Then  they 
bowed,  and  Roger,  more  excited  than  he  had  been 
for  a  long  time,  but  maintaining  perfect  outward 
calm,  turned  away. 

He  rebuked  himself  sharply  that  he  had  not  pro- 
vided against  this  embarrassment,  and  threatened 
danger  besides,  by  inquiring  more  carefully  about 
the  man  he  had  been  asked  to  meet;  but  his  pride 
was  aroused  now,  and  he  resolved  not  only  to  stay, 
but  to  show  himself  as  indifferent  to  the  situation 
as  he  would  like  to  feel.  He  had  had  a  rather 
small  opinion  of  Gray  in  the  old  days  when  he 
used  to  meet  him  in  the  Plato  class,  and  it  would 
go  hard  with  him  before  he  showed  any  signs  of 
fear  or  concern  now.  He  passed  around  the  room, 
greeting  the  other  guests  with  more  than  usual  cor- 
diality. 

Mrs.  Clarke  verified  her  daughter's  predictions 
by  whispering  to  him  that  he  was  to  take  out  the 
rector's  wife,  but  he  found  Nina  on  the  other  side. 


ROGEE  HUNT.  285 

She  blushed  with  pleasure  when  she  discovered  the 
conjunction,  which  was  a  surprise  to  her,  and  to 
be  accounted  for  only  by  the  fact  that  a  young  gen- 
tleman accompanying  her  uncle  on  his  Western  trip 
was  her  escort,  and  had  been  given  the  place  on 
the  hostess'  left,  the  rector  being  assigned  the  sec- 
ond on  the  right.  Roger  sat  nearly  opposite  the 
guest  of  the  occasion,  but  the  circumstance  did  not 
seem  to  disturb  him  in  the  least.  He  was  more 
than  composed,  the  most  brilliant  and  talkative 
member  of  the  company,  turning  the  attention, 
more  than  once,  of  those  who  sat  at  a  distance  to 
look  and  listen  to  him.  He  told  anecdotes,  en- 
tered into  a  lively  scrimmage  in  words  with  the 
rector,  taking  care  "to  keep  it  good-natured,  cov- 
ered the  ladies  near  him  with  mingled  badinage 
and  gallantry,  made  the  rector's  wife  laugh  at 
things  she  did  not  approve  of,  and  would  have  to 
do  mental  penance  for  afterward,  whispered  words 
of  delicious  nonsense  into  Nina's  ear,  distracting 
her  attention  quite  from  the  young  man  on  the 
other  side,  who,  it  was  plain,  would  have  been  glad 
to  have  her  to  himself;  in  short,  made  himself  the 
life  and  hero  of  the  evening.  If  the  host  of  the 
occasion  had  understood  the  situation  he  would 
have  conceived  a  new  admiration  for  his  guest;  he 
would  have  said  that  he  at  least  meant  to  die  game. 
The  guest  of  honor  was  quite  eclipsed,  but 
seemed  not  to  know  it,  playing  his  part  poorly. 
From  difficult  attempts  to  talk  he  lapsed  into  long 
periods  of  silence,  playing  with  his  food,  and  look- 


286  EOGER  HUNT. 

ing  at  Roger,  who  never  looked  at  him  in  return, 
yet  noted  his  slightest  movement.  Mrs.  Clarke 
was  agreeably  surprised  with  Roger,  but  a  little 
disappointed  with  her  brother,  and  made  several 
attempts  to  draw  him  out,  but  to  no  avail.  Nina 
looked  at  him  delightedly.  When  Roger  drew 
near  his  hostess  to  say  good-evening,  she  thanked 
him  warmly  for  coming.  She  felt  the  success  of 
the  occasion  was  due  to  him. 

"I  know  dinner-parties  are  a  great  bore  to  you," 
she  said.  Her  brother  stood  near. 

"Oh,  no,  not  always;  one  sometimes  finds  an 
unexpected  sauce  to  such  things  which  whets  ap- 
petite." 

"I  wish  you  would  tell  me  what  it  was  this  time. 
I  would  have  it  always.  It  was  n't  the  mayonnaise, 
I  suppose." 

"No,  though  that  was  very  good,  too." 

"  Thank  you;  I  know  you  are  a  judge  of  those 
things  too.  I  want  you  and  my  brother  to  get 
acquainted,"  she  went  on,  turning  to  include  her 
solemn-faced  relative  in  the  conversation.  "Pro- 
fessor Hunt,"  she  continued  to  him,  "is  the  only 
literary  character  Garrison  can  boast  of.  We  make 
a  great  deal  of  him, —  spoil  him  a  little,  I  sometimes 
think.  He  has  written  some  books.  They  are  so 
learned  that  few  of  us  understand  them,  but  that 
only  makes  us  the  more  proud  of  them." 

"Don't  tell  him  the  rest,"  said  Roger  ironically. 
"Don't  tell  him  I  'm  kept  in  a  cage  and  marked 
'dangerous.' ' 


ROGER  HUNT.  287 

"Oh,  he  would  have  found  that  out  anyway," 
she  laughed.  "  These  newspaper  men  are  so  clever 
—  they  know  everything  beforehand." 

"Not  always,  my  dear  sister,"  Gray  replied,  find- 
ing himself  in  a  position  where  he  must  say  some- 
thing. "I  can  assure  you  the  unexpected  happens 
to  us  as  often  as  to  other  people,  and  has  sometimes 
a  stupefying  effect." 

"What  is  that  you  are  saying,  uncle?"  said 
Nina,  who  had  been  hovering  near,  and  now  came 
towards  him,  running  her  hand  confidingly  through 
his  arm,  and  looking  into  his  face  with  a  smile. 
"That  newspaper  men  are  stupid?  I  shan't  let 
you  slander  yourself  like  that." 

"Not  just  that,"  he  replied,  "only  that  they 
sometimes  require  time  to  get  used  to  their  sur- 
prises." 

The  sight  of  her  daughter  reminded  Mrs.  Clarke 
of  something  she  wished  to  say  to  Roger. 

"Is  it  'talking  shop,'  "  she  asked  him,  "if  I  re- 
quest to  have  Nina's  lessons  given  up  during  her 
uncle's  visit?  She  wishes  to  see  as  much  of  him 
as  possible,  and  his  stay  with  us  is  so  short." 
Roger  suspected  that  it  was  less  the  uncle  than  the 
uncle's  younger  friend,  whom  Mrs.  Clarke  had 
been  very  gracious  to  at  table,  that  formed  the  mo- 
tive of  this  request.  He  bowed  rather  coldly,  and 
said  it  should  be  as  she  wished,  of  course. 

"I  don't  see  why  I  should  give  up  my  lessons," 
Nina  exclaimed,  in  a  disappointed  tone.  "Uncle 
Mortimer  does  n't  want  me  with  him  all  the  time, 


288  ROGER  HUNT. 

I  'm  sure."  She  glanced  at  him  affectionately, 
but  he  looked  at  her  gravely,  putting  his  hand  over 
hers  that  still  rested  on  his  arm. 

"I  cannot  see  any  too  much  of  you,  Nina." 

"Then  if  you  are  willing  we  will  take  a  week's 
vacation,"  Mrs.  Clarke  said,  paying  no  attention 
to  this  by -play,  and  Roger  bowed  again  and  took 
his  leave. 

The  next  morning  their  neighbor  came  up  as  a 
natural  topic  at  the  Clarke  breakfast-table.  Mrs. 
Clarke  still  remembered  with  gratification  the  help 
he  had  been  to  her  the  evening  before,  and  spoke 
of  him  with  high  praise. 

"  Why  do  you  call  him  'professor  '  ?  "  her  brother 
asked. 

Mr.  Clarke  laughed.  "Lucy  gave  him  his 
title."  His  wife  colored. 

"I  'm  sure  he  deserves  it,"  she  said.  "He  is  a 
university  man,  and  has  studied  all  his  life,  be- 
sides." 

"From  what  university  did  he  graduate?  "  Gray 
inquired.  He  wanted  to  learn  just  how  much  his 
relatives  really  knew  of  this  man. 

"I  don't  know;  some  Eastern  institution.  He 
has  lived  abroad  a  good  deal.  His  wife  is  an  in- 
valid —  consumption.  They  say  she  is  failing  fast. 
That  reminds  me  I  must  try  and  get  in  to  see  her." 

"Are  there  any  children?" 

"One,  a  daughter.  She  is  away  at  school  now. 
She  and  Nina  used  to  study  together,  though  Nina 
is  two  years  older.  I  don't  know  what  we  should 


ROGER  HUNT.  289 

» 

have  done  with  Nina  if  it  hadn't  been  for  Profes- 
sor Hunt.  He  has  been  most  kind,  and  Nina  has 
improved  wonderfully  under  his  instruction." 

Mortimer  Gray  glanced  at  his  niece  as  her 
mother  was  speaking.  There  was  a  bright  flush  on 
her  cheeks,  and  her  eyes  were  dropped  to  her  plate. 

"So  Professor  Hunt  is  your  teacher,"  he  said 
to  her  later,  as  they  sat  in  the  library  together. 
"What  are  you  studying?  " 

"English  literature,"  she  told  him.  He  pressed 
his  inquiries  farther  and  learned  she  had  begun 
with  Chaucer  and  had  now  reached  the  dramatists. 

"Do  you  like  poetry?" 

"I  didn't  much  until  I  began  to  study  with  Mr. 
Hunt."  Nina  knew  her  teacher  liked  this  simple 
designation  better. 

"You  have  still  a  good  deal  of  ground  to  go 
over,  if  you  have  only  reached  the  dramatists." 

"  Yes,  sir ;  but  Mr.  Hunt  reads  to  me  sometimes 
from  the  modern  poets." 

Her  uncle  asked  which  ones.  She  reflected  a 
moment.  There  was  "  Atalanta  in  Calydon,"  he  had 
read  part  of  that  to  her  once ;  and  Edgar  Poe  — 
Mr.  Hunt  was  a  great  admirer  of  Poe  —  Moore's 
"Jjalla  Rookh,"  and  a  little  from  Keats.  A  unique 
list,  her  listener  thought. 

"Anything  from  Wordsworth  or  Tennyson?" 

"I  don't  think  he  cares  much  about  them.  He 
thinks  Tennyson  is  overrated.  Once  he  read 
something  from  Browning." 

"  Ah,  Mr.  Hunt  is  one  of  the  Browning  devo- 
tees." 


290  EOGER  HUNT. 

« 

"Oh,  no;  he  makes  fun  of  them." 

"What  poem  did  he  read  to  you?" 

'"The  Statue  and  the  Bust.'"  Her  uncle 
looked  at  her  in  surprise. 

"That  is  a  rather  strange  selection,"  he  said. 

"Do  you  mean  it  is  an  immoral  poem?"  Nina 
asked  anxiously.  "Mr.  Hunt  says  that  is  what 
some  of  the  critics  think,  but  he  does  not  agree 
with  them." 

"No,  I  shouldn't  call  it  immoral;  but  it  is  one 
that  can  easily  be  put  to  immoral  uses."  Gray 
pulled  his  beard  thoughtfully  a  moment. 

"  How  long  do  you  intend  to  continue  your  stud- 
ies with  Mr.  Hunt?  Are  you  not  going  to  school 
again?" 

"I  think  not,  sir;  I  don't  want  to  go  now." 

"I  thought  your  mother  intended  sending  you  to 
some  college." 

"Yes,  sir,  at  one  time;  but  I  grew  too  fast,  and 
I  was  so  much  behind.  I  cannot  learn  quick,  like 
Estella." 

"Who  is  Estella?" 

"Estella  Hunt,  I  mean." 

"Oh,  yes.      What  kind  of  a  girl  is  she?  " 

"A  very  good  girl,"  was  the  conscientious  re^ly, 
"and  very  bright;  the  brightest  girl  I  know. 
Study  is  like  play  to  her.  Her  father  has  taken 
great  pains  with  her." 

"You  and  she  are  good  friends,  then?  " 

"  Yes,  sir, "  coloring.  "  That  is  —  Estella  is  much 
younger  than  I  am,  and  she  is  away  at  school  now." 


ROGER  HUNT.  291 

Her  uncle  rose  and  soon  after  left  the  house,  tak- 
ing a  long  walk  by  himself. 

Mortimer  Gray's  clean  and  upright  type  of  man- 
hood showed  in  his  physical  exterior.  The  auburn 
beard  covered  a  skin  clear  and  white  as  a  woman's, 
eyes  of  pure  blue  looked  straight  before  them. 
They  had  none  of  the  piercing  brilliancy  of  Roger 
Hunt's,  but  wore  a  calm  and  steadfast  look,  show- 
ing a  courage  that  was  not  dependent  on  noisy  blus- 
ter, or  any  sensational  effects.  His  moustache 
neai'ly  covered  his  lips,  which  were  a  little  too  red 
for  a  man's,  but  defined  a  mouth  kindly  and  strong 
in  its  expression. 

There  was  nothing  in  the  world  this  man  so 
hated  to  do  as  to  hurt  any  one.  A  spirit  of  wide 
benevolence  governed  the  least  of  his  actions.  He 
was  never  unhappy  except  when  called  on  to  pass 
judgment  on  another.  One  reason  why  he  liked 
his  calling  as  a  journalist  was  that  it  put  him  in 
such  impartial  relation  with  his  fellows.  Profes- 
sional bias  was  possible  here  as  elsewhere,  but  not 
a  necessary  adjunct  of  his  vocation.  As  a  lawyer, 
a  doctor,  or  a  minister,  even,  he  must  look  at  men 
from  a  distinct  point  of  view.  Each  of  these  call- 
ings he  was  ready,  with  his  native  modesty,  to  pro- 
nounce greater  than  his  own,  yet  he  liked  his  best, 
for  the  genial  and  even  frame  of  mind  he  fancied 
it  preserved  him  in  towards  the  rest  of  the  world. 
He  had  neither  to  adjudge,  dissect,  or  save  his  fel- 
low-creatures, only  to  observe  and  record  them. 

Yet  with  this  unpartisan  spirit  he  had  a  con- 


292  EOGER  HUNT. 

tempt  for  all  kinds  of  meanness  and  human  deceit. 
He  hated  sin,  though,  more  than  the  sinner.  He 
did  not  wish  to  injure  Roger  Hunt,  nor  even  to 
judge  him.  He  thought  of  him  without  rancor 
or  a  tinge  of  pharisaical  pride  or  scorn,  but  with 
distrust  newly  deepened.  Of  singularly  pure  and 
blameless  character  himself,  a  combined  Bayard 
and  Galahad  in  the  eyes  of  his  friends,  he  saw  him- 
self full  of  faults,  which  forbade  too  strong  con- 
demnation of  others.  He  had  seen  Nina  and  her 
teacher  together,  however,  and  he  had  determined 
to  act  in  some  way,  but  quietly.  He  remembered 
the  sick  wife,  and  the  faint,  fleeting  interest  he  had 
once  felt  in  Eleanor  Thaxter  in  his  own  behalf. 
He  was  happily  married  now,  with  a  troop  of  boys 
and  girls  around  him,  but  he  remembered  it.  He 
thought  of  the  innocent  daughter  also. 

He  did  not  forget  that  Roger,  too,  had  claims. 
Some  immunity  from  wrong-doing  had  been  gained 
in  the  mere  passage  of  time,  the  flight  of  eighteen 
years,  an  honorable  if  late  marriage,  and  the  high 
respect,  honestly  earned  since  then,  in  the  commu- 
nity in  which  he  now  lived.  Yet  something  must 
be  done,  and  he  must  do  it.  He  resolved  to  do 
it  quite  alone.  Neither  his  sister,  much  less  her 
husband,  could  help  here,  for  Gray  wished  above 
everything  to  avoid  a  sensation.  He  wished  only 
to  put  an  end  to  the  relation  between  Roger  Hunt 
and  his  niece.  Coming  back  to  the  house,  he  wrote 
a  short  note,  and  went  out  on  the  street  again  to 
find  a  messenger;  for  this  was  a  matter  he  did 


ROGER  HUNT.  293 

not  care  to  intrust  to  one  of  the  servants  of  the 
house. 

Gray's  letter  was  not  a  surprise  to  the  one  who 
received  it,  who  nevertheless  felt  affronted  by  it. 
It  simply  requested  an  interview  on  a  matter  of 
common  interest  to  them  both.  Roger  threw  it  on 
the  table  with  an  exclamation  of  anger,  then  re- 
mained standing  in  sullen  thought  until  a  sound 
from  the  boy  who  stood  waiting  recalled  him. 

"There  is  no  answer,"  he  said  sharply.  The 
boy  turned  with  a  slouching  motion  towards  the 
door.  When  he  reached  it,  Roger,  looking  at  him 
distrustfully,  spoke  again. 

"Where  are  you  going?" 

The  boy  turned  partly  towards  him  again,  and 
spoke  in  a  drawling  tone. 

"I  was  to  bring  the  answer  to  him,  nobody  else, 
the  man  said,  so  I  s'pose  I  've  got  to  tell  him  just 
the  same,  if  there  ain't  none."  He  wore  an  ag- 
grieved air,  evidently  thinking  there  ought  to  be 
an  extra  dime  for  so  useless  a  job. 

"You  need  not  go  back,"  Roger  said.  "I  will 
see  that  the  answer  is  delivered." 

"Them  wa'n't  my  orders,"  said  the  other  sulk- 
ily. Roger  looked  at  him,  in  his  soiled  and  ragged 
clothes,  and  put  his  hand  in  his  pocket.  The  boy 
watched  him  narrowly,  but  Roger  drew  it  out 
again,  empty.  He  had  his  own  notions  of  honor, 
and  they  were  not  so  bad.  He  could  defy  high 
heaven  in  the  pursuit  of  a  chosen  object,  but  he 
could  not  crawl  in  the  dirt. 


294  ROGER  HUNT. 

"I  will  send  an  answer  by  mail,"  he  said. 
"Tell  him  that,  if  you  like." 

This  was  but  a  weak  postponement  of  the  inev- 
itable, he  felt;  yet,  as  it  was  sure  to  annoy  some 
one  else,  he  found  satisfaction  in  it.  He  had  judged 
rightly ;  the  message  did  irk  Gray,  though  he  told 
himself  he  would  have  done  better  to  be  simply 
amused  by  it;  but  his  sense  of  humor  was  not 
strong.  The  answer  by  mail,  when  it  came,  simply 
said  that  the  writer  would  be  at  home  Tuesday 
evening  at  eight  o'clock.  That  meant  another  post- 
ponement of  twenty-four  hours,  but  Gray  was  a 
patient  man. 

Eoger  compelled  himself  to  go  through  his  usual 
routine  of  work,  not  leaving  the  house  until  to- 
wards evening,  but  in  spite  of  himself  he  felt  ner- 
vous and  excited.  Passing  the  Clarke  mansion  he 
met  Nina,  who  stopped  to  speak  with  him.  She 
saw  that  he  was  in  one  of  his  depressed  moods,  the 
inevitable  accompaniment  of  high  talent,  she  had 
come  to  believe,  commanding  respect  as  well  as 
sympathy. 

"  I  had  a  bad  dream,  last  night,"  he  said,  in  reply 
to  some  inquiry  of  hers,  and  in  a  sad,  far-away 
voice. 

"Tell  it  me,"  she  said;  but  he  shook  his  head  to 
express  the  futility  of  description. 

"I  was  surrounded  by  darkness,  and  quite  alone. 
All  my  friends  had  fled  from  me;  some  because 
they  were  afraid  of  me,  others  because  they  no  lon- 
ger believed  in  me.  A  few  still  believed,  but  were 


ROGER  HUNT.  295 

I 

kept  away  by  others.  You  were  one  of  those." 
The  color  came  and  went  in  her  sensitive  face,  her 
heart  beat  fast. 

"I  am  sure,  sir,  I  shall  always  believe  in  you." 

"Will  you?  "  and  he  looked  at  her  mournfully. 

"Why  should  I  not?  "  He  shook  his  head  the 
second  time,  in  sign  of  more  mystery. 

"I  am  a  doomed  man,  I  sometimes  think.  Be- 
cause I  can  stand  alone,  I  must.  What  would  I 
not  give  for  one  true  heart,  that  I  could  trust  ut- 
terly, that  I  know  would  never  forsake  me;  but 
when  a  man  asks  for  that,  he  asks  for  heaven." 
The  girl  trembled,  and  turned  away. 

"See,  now,  it  is  coining  true  already.  You  are 
afraid  of  me  and  anxious  to  get  away." 

"Oh  no,  sir,"  turning  towards  him  again. 

"Promise  me,  then,  it  shall  not  come  true,  that 
you  will  believe  in  me,  be  my  true  friend,  always?  " 
He  held  out  his  hand.  That  seemed  an  easy  prom- 
ise, and  she  put  her  own  within  it. 

Mortimer  Gray,  pacing  up  and  down  in  his 
sister's  library,  came  to  the  window,  and  looking 
out,  saw  them.  Though  they  were  at  some  dis- 
tance, something  in  the  attitude  of  the  two  struck 
him  and  sharpened  his  distrust,  but  he  was  aware 
he  was  in  a  prejudiced  state  of  mind  here.  Mrs. 
Clarke,  sitting  near,  noted  him,  and  rising,  ap- 
proached the  window  also.  Nina  had  left  her 
teacher  and  was  coming  towards  the  house. 

"Is  that  Professor  Hunt?"  she  asked  in  some 
surprise  and  a  little  disappointment.  She  was 


296  KOGER  HUNT. 

wondering  why  Roger  did  not  call  on  her  brother, 
and  was  growing  a  little  vexed  at  his  neglect. 
Whom  did  he  think  was  good  enough  for  him  to 
associate  with,  she  wondered.  Journalism  was  not 
literature,  she  knew,  but  — 

"Why  didn't  Professor  Hunt  come  in?"  she 
asked  Nina,  when  the  latter  entered  the  room. 

"I  asked  him,"  was  the  reply,  "but  he  excused 
himself.  He  is  not  feeling  very  well,  I  think." 

"He  keeps  himself  mewed  up  in  that  library 
from  morning  until  night,"  Mrs.  Clarke  said  discon- 
tentedly. "He  does  n't  deserve  it  from  me,  but  I 
believe  I  '11  send  over  and  ask  him  to  spend  the 
evening  with  us."  Nina  left  the  room. 

"Not  to-night,  sister,  if  you  please;  I  have  an 
engagement." 

Two  hours  later  a  servant  ushered  Gray  into 
Roger's  study.  The  two  greeted  each  other  for- 
mally, and  Roger  asked  his  visitor,  coldly,  to  be 
seated. 

"Thank  you,"  said  Gray,  "but  as  my  errand 
need  not  be  a  long  one,  and  as  I  must  assume  this 
visit  is  not  wholly  agreeable  to  you,  I  had  better 
remain  standing,  perhaps." 

"Why  should  it  be  disagreeable  to  me?  "  Roger 
asked,  with  quick  suspicion. 

"Pardon  me,  but  we  waste  time,  it  seems  to  me, 
to  deal  in  any  disguises.  You  must  surely  have 
guessed  why  I  asked  to  see  you." 

"Not  so  well  but  that  I  will  leave  you  to  ex- 
plain." 


ROGER  HUNT.  297 

"I  will  do  scat  once."  But  having  reached  this 
point  Gray  hesitated.  It  was  a  difficult  and  deli- 
cate task  he  had  undertaken;  he  wished  to  execute 
it  with  all  the  nicety  gentlemanly  honor  and  taste 
demanded.  He  was  conscious,  also,  in  a  dim  way, 
of  wishing  to  justify  himself  to  the  man  before  him, 
even  while  seeming  to  attack  him. 

"I  should  like  you  to  believe,  first  of  all,  Mr. 
Hunt,"  he  began,  "that  the  duty  of  this  visit,  as 
I  conceive  it,  is  one  I  would  gladly  have  put  aside. 
I  can  assure  you  that  I  lament,  as  much  as  you  do, 
the  circumstances  that  have  thrown  us  together  in 
this  way." 

"I  am  as  far  from  lamenting  them"  —Roger 
began,  in  his  former  tone,  but  a  quiet  glance  from 
the  other  checked  him. 

"We  shall  get  on  faster,"  Gray  repeated,  "and 
relieve  ourselves  of  each  other's  presence  sooner,  if 
we  are  perfectly  frank.  For  myself,  I  admit  this 
meeting  is  unpleasant " 

"Why  did  you  seek  it,  then?"  Again  Gray's 
eyes  rested  on  him. 

"  If  you  have  come  here  to  threaten  me,  then  you 
should  know  I  care  nothing  for  your  threats.  If 
you  have  any  evil  designs  against  me,  you  will  ex- 
ecute them,  I  suppose,  and  without  any  hindrance 
from  me." 

Gray  mused  on  this  a  space.  It  looked  as  if  the 
speaker  spoke  the  truth,  and  was  as  indifferent  as 
he  seemed. 

"You  have  the  courage  of  your  opinions,  I  know, 


298  ROGER  HUNT. 

and  your  own  sense  of  honor,  I  do  not  doubt.  May 
I  assume,  then,  that  my  sister  Mrs.  Clarke,  and  her 
family  have  the  same  knowledge  of  your  past  life 
that  I  have?" 

"You  may  assume  what  you  please,"  scornfully. 
"Why  do  you  not  ask  them?  "  a  moment  later. 

"I  have  considered  that,"  was  the  quiet  response, 
"but  I  am  loath  to  resort  to  such  measures  before 
I  am  compelled  to." 

"You  are  not  prompted  in  such  consideration  by 
any  feeling  for  me?"  Roger  said,  ironically. 

"By  more,  perhaps,  than  you  would  willingly 
believe.  I  have  no  word  of  condemnation  to  speak 
of  your  past,  Mr.  Hunt;  I  am  more  desirous  to 
understand  my  fellow-men  than  to  judge  them. 
But  I  ask  you,  are  you  doing  the  fair  and  upright 
thing  in  keeping  up  this  intimate  relation  with  peo- 
ple who  know  so  little  of  you? " 

"You  wish  to  break  off  my  connection  with  your 
relatives,  and  if  I  do  not  agree  to  your  demands 
you  will  reveal  what  you  think  a  damaging  secret 
in  my  past  life!  I  leave  you  to  judge  for  yourself 
the  character  and  disposition  of  a  man  who  seeks 
an  interview  with  another  in  his  own  house  for 
such  a  purpose.  You  will  find  I  am  not  a  man  to 
be  intimidated.  I  say  to  you,  sir,  that  I  consider 
such  conduct  no  better  than  a  piece  of  villainous 
blackmail!  You  may  do  your  worst!  " 

"That  is  your  final  word,  is  it?"  Gray  asked, 
taking  up  his  hat  from  the  table  where  he  had  laid 
it.  He  had  watched  Roger  curiously  during  this 


ROGER  HUNT.  299 

outbreak,  and  though  he  detected  some  signs  of 
bluster,  he  thought,  very  likely,  he  meant  what  he 
said.  Any  way  he  had  had  enough  of  prelimina- 
ries. "I  will  not  trouble  you  further,"  he  added, 
and  turned  away.  Before  he  reached  the  door, 
Roger  spoke :  — 

"What  are  you  going  to  do?  " 

"I  have  not  yet  determined." 

A  less  intelligent  man  might  have  found  some 
weak  ground  for  hope  in  a  reply  of  .this  kind,  so 
candidly  spoken.  Roger  did  not. 

"You  mean  to  strike  at  me  in  the  dark,  then?  " 

"I  came  here  in  the  hope  of  avoiding  any  action 
that  might  have  that  construction  put  upon  it,  of 
reaching  some  basis  of  just  agreement.  I  wish  to 
act  with  you,  not  against  you."  There  was  a  mo- 
ment's silence,  while  Gray  stood  waiting. 

"What  is  it  you  wish  me  to  do?"  Roger  asked 
shortly. 

Gray  stepped  back  a  pace  or  two.  "I  do  not 
ask  you  to  break  off  all  connection  with  my  sister's 
family.  That  would  be  impracticable.  I  only  ask 
you  to  regulate  it.  I  wish  you  to  discontinue 
teaching  my  niece."  Roger  threw  a  quick  suspi- 
cious glance  at  him. 

"I  see,"  he  exclaimed  sarcastically.  "You  have 
other  designs  for  her." 

"Other  designs!"  Gray  repeated,  in  a  puzzled 
tone. 

"You  wish  to  marry  her  to  your  young  friend!  " 

The  total  unexpectedness  —  the  brazen  effrontery 


300  ROGER  HUNT. 

or  stupid  ignorance  which  could  dictate  such  a  re- 
mark, staggered  Gray.  Was  the  man  a  fool,  he 
asked  himself,  or  a  downright  villain  ?  Roger  saw 

o  o 

that  he  had  overshot  himself  and  reddened  with 
mortification. 

"Why  should  I  give  up  teaching  Miss  Clarke?" 
he  asked,  with  recovered  boldness. 

"Suppose  we  agree  not  to  discuss  that  point," 
said  Gray.  "Suppose  we  say  it  is  only  because  I 
ask  it." 

"And  you  expect  me  to  act  on  a  reason  of  that 
kind?" 

"I  do  not  know  whether  you  will  or  not,"  said 
Gray,  and  looked  at  him  attentively.  A  bright 
spot  was  glowing  in  each  cheek,  his  blue  eyes 
emitted  a  keen  light,  seldom  seen  there,  his  nos- 
trils whitened.  He  took  a  step  or  two  towards 
Roger. 

"When  a  man  of  low,  animal  instincts,"  he  be- 
gan, in  a  low  tone,  "deliberately  plans  a  wo- 
man's shame  and  ruin,  we  know  how  to  describe  his 
action.  We  call  it  by  an  ugly  name,  and  know 
how  to  deal  with  it.  But  for  the  man  who,  under 
the  guise  of  friendship,  is  satisfied  to  reap  a  victory 
of  another  kind,  yet  quite  as  deadly  —  when  he 
aims  to  seduce  the  imagination  only,  to  blast  a 
young  girl's  spirit,  kill  all  her  innocent  thoughts, 
worm  himself  into  affections  he  has  no  honest  use 
for,  pollute  her  soul  —  for  that  man  and  his  con- 
duct the  word  has  yet  to  be  coined." 

"That  is  enough!  "  cried  Roger.     He  was  white 


ROGER  HUNT.  301 

with  rage,  and  shook  like  a  leaf  with  something 
besides  rage.  No  one  had  ever  spoken  to  him  like 
this,  and  he  both  feared  and  hated  the  man  who 
had  done  so.  It  was  as  though  he  had  suddenly 
caught  a  horribly  distorted  image  of  himself  in  a 
mirror  held  up  for  that  purpose.  He  did  not  be- 
lieve in  its  truthfulness,  he  denied  the  likeness,  but 
it  shamed  him,  nevertheless,  more  than  he  had  ever 
been  shamed  before. 

"You  reveal  your  own  nature,  not  mine,"  he 
hotly  declared.  "It  is  you  who  cover  innocence 
with  foul  suspicion,  who  turn  light  into  darkness, 
the  fit  abode  of  minds  that  peep  and  pry  and  make 
dastardly  charges  as  yours  does." 

44 We  have  had  enough  of  this,"  said  Gray, 
wearily.  "Will  you  grant  my  request  about  my 
niece?  "  Roger  looked  at  him.  "Let  us  have  no 
more  words,  please.  A  simple  'Yes  '  or  'No  '  will 
suffice. — I  fancy  you  mean  it  to  be  'No,'"  he 
added,  as  Roger  still  looked  at  him  with  proud  dis- 
dain, and  he  made  another  movement  to  depart. 

"It  would  be  'No  '  a  thousand  times  over,  now 
and  throughout  eternity  if  —  if  I  had  only  myself 
to  consider."  The  speaker's  voice  broke,  whether 
from  real  emotion  or  with  intention  the  other  could 
not  tell.  He  dropped  down  into  a  chair  and  cov- 
ered his  face  with  his  hands. 

"I  am  helpless,"  he  exclaimed,  raising  it  a  mo- 
ment after.  "  If  I  stood  alone  —  but  I  —  I  have  a 
wife  and  child."  He  again  hid  his  face.  Gray 
looked  at  him  with  increasing  wonder  and  curiosity 
combined.  Was  this  acting? 


302  ROGER  HUNT. 

"It  is  because  I,  too,  remembered  them  that  I 
am  here,"  he  said  gently.  He  waited  a  moment, 
but  Roger  did  not  raise  his  head.  Gray  then  qui- 
etly prepared  to  leave  the  room.  He  considered 
his  point  gained,  and  wished  to  be  magnanimous. 
He  believed  this  was  an  enemy  he  could  trust. 

"I  think  we  understand  each  other,"  he  said,  as 
Roger  still  remained  silent.  "I  will  not  trouble 
you  further}"  and  went  out. 


XIX. 

IN  the  discussion  that  had  taken  place  at  Mrs. 
Somers's  after  the  flight  of  Roger  Hunt  from  his 
home,  Mortimer  Gray  had  remarked  that  he 
seemed  to  be  a  mixture  of  the  hero  and  the  crank. 
He  left  him  now  unable  to  determine  whether  it 
was  a  mere  braggart  with  whom  he  had  been  trying 
to  deal,  a  downright  impostor,  or  only,  as  George 
Somers  had  called  him,  an  egotist.  Soon  after  he 
had  occasion  to  suspect  that  he  combined  other 
characteristics  with  these,  and  was  at  heart  both  a 
coward  and  a  sneak.  Two  days  after  the  inter- 
view in  Roger's  study  Gray  received  the  following 
letter :  — 

MORTIMER  GRAY: 

SIR,  —  I  write  to  say  to  you  that  after  you  left 
me  last  Tuesday  evening,  I  bitterly  regretted  the 
momentary  weakness  which  led  me  to  make  even  a 
tacit  show  of  acquiescence  in  the  ridiculous  and 
presumptuous  demand  which  formed  the  object  of 
your  visit,  and  which  I  now  reject  with  all  the  con- 
tempt it  deserves. 

I  should  not  deem  it  necessary  to  inform  you  of 
this  changed  decision  had  not  circumstances  arisen 
which  you  might  otherwise  misconstrue.  I  am 


304  ROGER  HUNT. 

about  to  leave  home  on  a  rather  extended  absence, 
the  object  of  which  is  explained  in  the  accompany- 
ing letter,  which  I  inclose  for  your  reading,  that 
you  may  be  under  no  misapprehension  as  to  my  real 
motive,  to  show  you  that  my  seeming  compliance 
with  your  request  is  no  real  one,  nor  to  be  so  re- 
garded by  you. 

I  regret  to  be  obliged  to  speak  thus  plainly,  but 
I  should  be  -untrue  to  myself  not  to  express  once 
more,  in  closing  this  letter,  my  deep  abhorrence 
and  scorn  for  certain  sentiments  expressed  by  your- 
self in  our  late  interview,  and  for  the  motive  which 
prompted  you  to  seek  it. 

Respectfully,  ROGER  HUNT. 

The  letter  inclosed  was  a  brief  business  epistle 
from  an  Eastern  publishing  house,  asking  Roger 
to  visit  some  ancient  ruins  in  California  and  Mex- 
ico, and  contribute  a  series  of  illustrated  articles  to 
a  leading  magazine.  Gray  read  it  and  let  it  slip 
through  his  fingers  to  the  floor.  He  sat  musing  a 
long  time,  an  expression  on  his  fa,ce  that  was  half 
irritated,  half  amused.  Finally  he  spoke. 

"Check  !"  He  picked  up  Roger's  letter,  folded 
and  replaced  it  in  the  envelope,  and  could  fancy  he 
heard  a  faint  rustle  of  triumph  in  its  pages.  His 
nature  was  far  less  belligerent  than  most  men's, 
yet  he  had  not  only  a  man's  love  of  accomplishing 
the  thing  he  had  undertaken,  but  of  winning  ac- 
knowledgment of  his  success  from  others.  It  galled 
him  to  think  that  Roarer  Hunt  would  never  admit 


ROGER  HUNT.  305 

any  one  but  himself  victor  here.  The  device  was 
perfectly  transparent,  the  end  he  had  sought  was 
gained,  but  events  had  so  shaped  themselves  that 
the  man  who  had  been  beaten  would,  Gray  knew, 
go  through  life  proudly  denying  he  had  suffered 
the  least  coercion,  declaring,  and  perhaps  believ- 
ing —  for  he  now  began  to  see  what  an  immense 
power  of  self-delusion  there  is  in  a  nature  like 
Hunt's  —  that  he  had  been  influenced  only  by  out- 
ward circumstances  and  his  own  free  choice. 

"Pshaw  !  "  said  Gray  to  himself,  who  found  his 
vexation  deepening.  "What  do  I  care  how  the 
man  defines  his  motives,  so  the  thing  is  done?" 
But  he  did  care. 

That  the  end  he  sought  was  accomplished,  he  did 
not  doubt.  The  letter  from  Hunt's  publisher  had 
stated  that  the  journey  proposed  would  probably 
cover  a  month.  Before  the  end  of  that  time  Mrs. 
Clarke  and  her  daughter  would  be  on  the  other 
side  of  the  ocean,  for  at  least  a  year's  absence,  if 
the  former  carried  out  her  present  intentions,  of 
which  she  had  not  yet  spoken  to  Nina. 

"After  all,"  Gray  thought,  as  he  reflected  on 
the  subject,  "what  can  be  more  ignoble  than  the 
wish  to  extract  confession  from  your  fallen  enemy 
of  his  weakness  and  your  strength?  The  tactics  of 
war  in  ancient  times  permitted  a  man  to  spoil  as 
well  as  defeat  his  opponent;  modern  civilization 
resigns  the  former  privilege  to  the  savage  and  bri- 
gand." He  repeated  that  it  was  enough  the  ob- 
ject sought  was  accomplished,  let  Roger  Hunt  the- 
orize about  it  as  he  chose. 


306  ROGER  HUNT. 

Roger  made  preparations  to  leave  home  on  the 
following  Sunday.  He  was  greatly  pleased  with 
the  offer  he  had  received,  as  a  sign  of  growth  in 
that  literary  reputation  which  it  was  his  dearest 
wish  to  achieve ;  but  gratification  of  this  kind  had 
been  overlaid  by  another,  for  the  sudden  escape  it 
offered  from  the  difficulty  he  had  fallen  into  with 
Mortimer  Gray,  and  the  chance  he  had  not  dared 
hope  for  to  repudiate  and  defy  him,  retrieve  his 
own  wounded  dignity  and  pride.  He  sent  a  letter 
to  Mrs.  Clarke,  formally  resigning  his  post  as 
teacher,  leaving  the  future  unprovided  for  with 
any  expression  of  wish  or  suggestion,  and  closing 
with  a  message  of  friendly  remembrance  for  his 
pupil. 

Mrs.  Clarke  showed  the  letter  to  her  brother  and 
openly  mourned  the  loss  they  should  all  sustain. 
When  Nina  heard  the  news,  surprise  and  fear 
made  her  dumb,  and  seizing  a  book  Roger  had 
loaned  her  as  a  pretext,  she  hurried  over  to  the 
study  unobserved.  When  she  returned  her  eyes 
were  red  with  weeping,  and  she  shut  herself  in  her 
room.  Roger  had  used  a  devil's  frankness  with 
her,  clothed  in  a  saint's  holiness  of  purpose.  "Let 
there  be  only  truth  between  us  two,"  was  the  sub- 
stance of  his  talk  with  her.  Vaguely  and  mysteri- 
ously he  reminded  her  of  his  dream.  Evil  forces 
were  at  work  against  him  —  against  them  both. 
He  could  not  explain  further,  he  said  with  a  sigh, 
could  not  disturb  and  darken  her  youthful  confi- 
dence ;  but  this  much  she  should  know,  that  their 


ROGER  HUNT.  307 

innocent  and  friendly  relation  had  been  observed 
by  evil  eyes,  that  the  reason  assigned  for  bringing 
the  lessons  to  an  end  was  only  formal,  that  if  he 
had  not  been  going  away,  the  end  would  have 
come  through  pressure  of  these  mysterious  forces 
at  work  against  them.  He  assured  her  he  told  her 
all  this  because  he  trusted  her,  because  she  had  a 
right  to  know,  to  preserve  the  beautiful  understand- 
ing between  them,  and  in  secret  pledge  of  their 
continued  faithfulness  to  each  other. 

Nina  listened  with  wonder,  distress,  and  shame. 
She  could  gather  nothing  from  what  she  was  told 
except  that  somebody  was  displeased  with  them 
both.  Her  thoughts  flew  at  once  to  the  sick  wife. 
She  was  newly  alarmed  and  humiliated  for  herself, 
but  most  miserable  over  the  thought  that  Roger 
was  going  away.  Pity  and  admiration  were  now 
doubly  increased,  exalted  with  the  sentiment  of 
self-sacrifice.  If  Mortimer  Gray  could  have  read 
the  strange  conflicting  emotions  at  work  in  that 
voting  heart,  and  understood  the  cause,  he  might 
well  have  questioned  himself  whether  he  had  ac- 
complished good  or  evil  in  his  attempt  to  regulate 
the  conduct  of  Roger  Hunt. 

Mrs.  Somers's  letter  reached  Roger  Saturday 
evening,  as  he  was  completing  his  preparations  for 
departure  the  next  day.  He  did  not  recognize  the 
handwriting,  and  the  postmark  was  blurred.  Its 
bulk,  requiring  double  postage,  showed  that  it  was 
no  ordinary  business  communication,  and  he  looked 


308  ROGER  HUNT. 

at  it  with  much  curiosity,  before  he  cut  the  end  of 
the  envelope  and  drew  out  the  letter. 

He  turned  at  once  to  the  signature,  and  his  face 
brightened  when  he  saw  whose  it  was.  Kitty  Som- 
ers  had  resumed  a  large  place  in  his  thoughts  of 
late.  Since  his  return  from  Monroe  he  had  been 
seized  with  the  impulse,  more  than  once,  to  write 
to  her,  but  the  fear  of  meeting  a  repulse  had  with- 
held him.  Now,  it  seemed,  she  herself  had  taken 
the  initiative.  That  pleased  him,  and  was,  he 
thought,  quite  suitable.  With  a  gratified  look  he 
turned  back  to  the  beginning  of  the  letter  and 
began  to  read. 

This  expression  changed  slightly  before  he 
reached  the  end  of  the  first  sentence,  and  soon 
deepened  to  a  displeased  frown  that  grew  darker 
as  he  proceeded.  Once  he  started  with  surprise, 
when  he  came  upon  the  news  about  his  son ;  but  as 
this  was  told  in  a  way  that  offended  even  more 
than  it  astonished  him,  it  but  increased  resentment 
against  the  writer.  With  compressed  lips  and  low- 
ering brow  he  read  on  to  the  end,  then  threw  the 
letter  on  the  table,  and  rising  began  pacing  rapidly 
up  and  down  the  room. 

He  was  intensely  angry  with  Kitty  Somers.  He 
termed  her  letter  "insolent."  Certain  words  and 
phrases  she  had  employed  returned  to  him  and 
stung  him  like  scorpions,  but  less  to  shame  or 
alarm  than  to  anger  him.  As  for  the  effect  of  the 
news  her  letter  contained,  and  which  formed  the 
writer's  chief  motive  in  sending  it,  the  discovery 


ROGER  HUNT.  309 

of  his  first-born,  it  was  scarcely  more  than  one 
of  annoyance.  Still  less  was  he  moved  by  what 
most  concerned  Mrs.  Somers,  anxiety  for  Estella, 
or  remorse  on  her  account.  He  gave  only  pass- 
ing thought  either  to  his  son  or  daughter.  He 
could  think  only  of  the  writer  of  the  letter.  All 
the  vexation  and  chagrin  he  had  lately  suffered 
from  other  directions  was  for  the  time  forgotten. 
The  near  became  remote,  the  distant  the  all-de- 
sired. Nina  Clarke  and  Mortimer  Gray  faded 
from  his  thoughts ;  all  he  wanted  now  was  to  meet 
Kitty  Somers,  to  give  her  his  opinion  of  her 
letter  and  her  temerity  in  writing  it,  to  answer 
her  taunts  and  reproaches.  To  attempt  to  put  his 
fermenting  thoughts  in  writing  was  far  too  in- 
adequate a  means  of  punishment.  He  wished  to 
meet  her  face  to  face.  Suddenly  he  asked  him- 
self, Why  not?  and  at  once  resolved  to  make  a 
little  detour  in  his  journey  and  go  to  Monroe. 
Eleanor  had  begged  him  to  do  this  when  he  first 
told  her  of  his  projected  trip,  but  he  had  put  her 
wish  aside.  Then  too,  Roger  supposed,  as  he  re- 
volved the  matter  in  his  mind,  he  ought,  perhaps, 
to  see  this  almost  forgotten  son  of  his.  He  had 
no  unpleasant  feelings  towards  him,  and  was  con- 
scious of  being  a  little  curious  concerning  him; 
certainly,  he  was  not  afraid  to  meet  him. 

When  Eleanor  learned  this  new  resolution,  that 
Roger  was  to  observe  her  wish  and  go  to  Monroe, 
she  was  first  pleased,  then  alarmed,  the  fear  that 
something  had  happened  to  Estella  quickly  assail- 


310  ROGER  HUNT. 

ing  her.  He  reassured  her  on  this  point,  briefly 
and  somewhat  impatiently. 

"Then  what  is  it?"  she  asked  in  a  weak  voice, 
looking  helplessly  up  at  him  from  the  pillow.  "I 
know  something  has  happened,  Roger.  You  are 
in  trouble." 

It  accorded  with  his  scrupulosity  in  small  mat- 
ters that  so  far  as  he  told  her  anything  he  should 
tell  her  the  truth.  He  might  have  employed  any 
one  of  a  dozen  innocent  subterfuges  to  soothe  and 
reassure  her,  but  that  was  not  his  way. 

"And  if  I  am,"  he  replied,  "it  is  not  about  any- 
thing in  which  you  can  help  me." 

"Oh,  Roger,  what  is  it?  Do  tell  me?  Don't 
leave  me  in  this  suspense !  If  it  is  about  Estella  "  — 

"It  is  not  about  Estella.  Estella  is  perfectly 
well,  so  far  as  I  know.  No,  I  can  tell  you  no- 
thing more,"  in  reply  to  another  entreating  word 
from  her.  "I  find  that  some  business  of  impor- 
tance calls  me  to  Monroe,  so  I  go  that  way;  that 
is  all."  He  bade  her  good-by  and  left  her. 

Mrs.  Saunders  was  sadly  puzzled  over  this  sud- 
den departure  from  home  of  the  master  of  the 
house,  on  so  long  a  journey  and  at  such  a  time. 
She  still  held  to  the  belief  that  Mr.  Hunt  was  a 
good  husband,  seeing  the  wife  surrounded  with  all 
her  condition  required,  and  trying  to  excuse  miss- 
ing care  and  attention  of  a  more  personal  order 
on  the  ground  of  long  illness  and  the  husband's 
absorption  in  his  books.  He  could  not  know,  she 
thought,  how  swiftly  the  end  was  approaching,  and 


ROGER  HUNT.  311 

hesitated  as  to  her  own  duty,  half -resolved  to  speak 
to  him,  but  this  was  not  easy.  Just  before  leaving 
the  house,  Roger  repeated  the  minute  directions  he 
had  before  given  her  abojit  the  different  points  at 
which  a  letter  or  telegram  might  reach  him.  She 
listened  deferentially,  but  summoning  courage  to 
say  a  word. 

"It  seems  a  pity  you  should  have  to  go,  just  now, 
sir,  and  for  so  long." 

"A  month  is  not  very  long,"  he  said,  coldly. 

"  No,  sir,  I  know ;  but  I  —  I  think  she  is  f ailing 
very  fast." 

"You  are  unnecessarily  alarmed.  The  doctor 
says  she  may  linger  in  this  way  for  months.  He 
ought  to  know." 

"Yes,  to  be  sure,  — the  doctor  ought  to  know," 
she  replied,  and  saw  him  depart.  She  went  back 
to  her  charge,  to  find  her  still  excited  over  Roger's 
change  of  plans,  and  to  pass  a  restless  night  with 
her. 

Roger  scarcely  remembered  Estella  was  in  the 
house,  when  he  mounted  the  steps  of  Mrs.  Black's 
residence  and  inquired  for  Mrs.  Somers.  He  met 
her,  however,  in  the  parlor,  her  books  in  her  arms, 
just  ready  to  set  out  for  school.  She  uttered  an 
exclamation  of  surprise  when  she  saw  him,  think- 
ing at  once  of  her  mother.  He  had  to  quiet  and 
reassure  her,  as  he  had  Eleanor  the  night  before, 
repeating  many  times  that  her  mother  was  not 
worse,  and  explaining,  briefly,  the  errand  which 
was  taking  him  frjm  home. 


312  EOGEE  HUNT. 

"A  month !  "  the  girl  exclaimed  in  some  concern. 
"Is  it  safe  to  leave  mamma  for  a  month?  " 

"If  I  had  thought  it  was  not,  I  should  not 
have  left  her,"  her  father  replied,  in  a  tone  of 
reprimand,  and  she  was  silenced.  He  looked  rest- 
lessly towards  the  door,  and  a  moment  after  Mrs. 
Somers  entered.  Constrained  again  by  Estella's 
presence,  she  went  forward  and  gave  him  her  hand. 

"I  wish  to  speak  with  Mrs.  Somers,  Estella," 
he  said,  breaking  the  silence  that  followed,  and 
while  the  girl  waited.  She  picked  up  her  books 
and  turned  towards  the  door,  but  reaching  it 
glanced  back. 

"Papa!  "she  exclaimed,  stepping  towards  him. 
"You  are  not  trying  to  deceive  me  ?  Is  mamma 
worse?"  He  made  an  impatient  response  to  the 
same  effect  as  before,  and  she  turned  a  troubled 
face  towards  Mrs.  Somers. 

"Your  mother  is  no  worse,  Estella.  Do  not  be 
alarmed,"  and  she  went  out  of  the  room,  wonder- 
ingly. 

Alone  with  him,  Mrs.  Somers  met  Roger's  look 
of  angry  challenge,  and  began  to  suspect  what  was 
coming. 

"Are  we  secure  against  interruption  here?"  he 
asked,  glancing  about  the  room,  separated  from  the 
hall  and  an  adjoining  one  in  the  rear  only  by  hang- 
ing draperies. 

"Not  altogether,"  she  replied  calmly,  seating 
herself  where  she  was,  and  not  offering  to  lead  him 
elsewhere.  He  came  towards  her. 


ROGER  HUNT.  313 

"I  received  your  letter,"  he  began.  As  there 
was  nothing  to  be  said  to  this  she  waited. 

"I  shall  be  very  frank  with  you,"  he  went  on. 
"I  shall  begin  by  telling  you  that  I  consider  such 
a  letter  utterly  inexcusable  on  any  grounds.  I  do 
not  permit  any  one  to  address  me  in  such  terms 
as  you  have  employed,  not  even  an  old  and  valued 
friend  like  yourself." 

"For  that  matter,"  she  replied,  with  some  sar- 
casm, "I  ceased  to  prefer  any  claims  of  that  kind 
years  ago." 

"Very  well!  That  is  all  the  more  reason,  then, 
why  you  should  refrain  from  giving  your  opinion 
of  me  now  —  unasked." 

There  was  some  reason  in  this,  and  she  sat  re- 
flecting on  his  words  a  moment,  unmindful  of  their 
rudeness.  She  saw  at  once  how  things  stood.  She 
had  meant  to  pierce  him  with  honest  shame  and 
remorse,  but  she  had  only  aroused  his  resentment 
against  herself.  It  was  soon  plain  that  he  cared 
not  a  jot  for  the  main  charges  in  her  letter,  the 
principal  revelation  it  contained;  he  was  simply 
angry  with  her  for  writing  it,  and  meant  to  quarrel 
with  her.  She  herself  was  in  too  displeased  a  state 
of  mind  to  guard  herself  against  him  in  the  latter 
point. 

"I  wish  to  repeat,"  he  began  again,  in  the  same 
manner,  "that  I  consider  such  a  letter  entirely  in- 
defensible. I  am  at  a  loss  to  know  how  any  one  — 
any  woman"  —  with  emphasis,  "could  have  writ- 
ten it.  There  is  not  a  particle  of  womanly  gen- 


314  ROGER  HUNT. 

tleness  or  feeling  in  it."     A  slight  color  rose  to 
his  listener's  face. 

"  What  excuse  have  you  to  offer  for  such  treat- 
ment of  one  who  never  injured  you?  "  he  ended,  in 
the  tone  he  might  have  used  to  Estella. 

"Excuse!"  she  repeated  with  a  singular  smile. 
"I  wished  to  speak  my  full  mind  on  some  points. 
I  am  not  sorry  I  have  done  so." 

"Speaking  her  full  mind  is  no  doubt  a  woman's 
privilege,  but  I  had  given  you  the  credit  of  being 
able  to  refrain  when  you  knew  nothing  could  come 
of  it.  What  did  you  expect  to  accomplish?  You 
should  know  me  well  enough  to  know  that  I  am 
not  easily  alarmed." 

"I  was  not  thinking  of  you  at  all,"  she  replied. 
He  stared  in  some  natural  surprise  at  this. 

"I  was  thinking  of  Estella."  He  frowned  a  lit- 
tle. 

"  Estella  !      What  harm  threatens  Estella  ?  " 

"It  is  like  you  to  ask." 

"Estella  will  be  surprised,  of  course,  perhaps 
a  little  hurt  and  offended,  at  the  knowledge  that 
she  has  a  half-brother.  She  would  have  known  it 
long  ago,  had  it  not  been  for  her  mother's  foolish 
scruples.  I  see  now  how  unwise  I  was  to  yield  to 
them." 

"You  mean  to  tell  Estella ?"  Mrs.  Somers  ex- 
claimed in  an  anxious  tone. 

"How  can  I  avoid  telling  her?"  he  asked  petu- 
lantly. "If,  as  you  say,  he  is  here" —  Even 
Roger  Hunt  found  it  hard  to  speak  his  son's 
name. 


ROGER  HUNT.  315 

"It  will  kill  her!" 

"You  take  a  very  exaggerated  view  of  the  whole 
matter." 

"Do  you  mean  to  say  there  is  nothing  you  would 
spare  her  the  knowledge  of?  nothing  you  regret?  " 

"  There  are  some  things  I  regret ;  but  I  deny  I 
have  reason  to  regret  any  action  of  mine  so  far  as 
its  motive  was  concerned.  As  to  results,"  and  he 
sighed,  "I  have  been  able  to  bear  them  so  far  as 
they  affected  myself ;  I  am  not  called  on  to  bear 
them,  I  suppose,  as  they  affect  others." 

"Not  even  as  they  affect  Estella?" 

"Not  even  as  they  affect  Estella." 

She  leaned  back  in  her  chair  and  looked  at  him. 
"You  are  a  strange  man,  Roger." 

"Not  to  those  who  understand  me,"  he  an- 
swered proudly.  She  had  some  difficulty  not  to 
smile.  The  mighty  seriousness  with  which  Roger 
Hunt  always  took  himself  was  one  of  the  causes, 
she  used  to  tell  her  husband,  underlying  his  erratic 
behavior.  He  had  some  sense  of  humor ;  she  had 
seen  him  laugh  over  Dogberry,  and  Sir  Andrew 
Aguecheek,  but  it  had  never  yet  served  as  a  help 
to  self-knowledge.  In  discussing  himself,  a  certain 
tone  of  ponderous  gravity  was  always  uppermost. 

"Tell  me,  Roger,"  she  said,  as  these  thoughts 
passed  and  gave  way  to  others,  more  serious,  "what 
is  the  duty  of  the  strong  towards  the  weak  in  this 
world?  Is  it  not  to  help?  Does  not  strength  bring 
responsibility?  " 

"Undoubtedly;  but   the  duty   of   the   weak   is 


316  ROGER  HUNT. 

equally  plain.  They  should  submit  to  be  guided 
by  the  strong." 

"But  the  weak  do  not  regard  themselves  as 
weak.  We  should  not  wish  them  to,  I  think.  We 
should  encourage  the  stronger  qualities  in  all.  I 
remember  how  much  you  used  to  make  of  people 
you  liked,  how  stoutly  you  would  defend  them,  how 
much  you  would  do  for  them.  You  spoiled  them 
sometimes,  I  thought.  To  be  sure,"  with  a  pecul- 
iar expression,  "you  generally  made  up  for  it  by 
your  very  different  treatment  of  those  you  didn't 
like." 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  that  ?  "  he  asked  quickly. 

"Oh,  never  mind!  I  don't  know  why  we  are 
wasting  time  like  this.  You  are  one  of  the  most 
intelligent  men  I  know,  in  some  ways,  and  the 
dullest  in  others." 

"That  is  what  you  said  in  your  letter,"  he  ex- 
claimed, lifting  his  head. 

"Oh,  for  pity's  sake  stop  talking  about  the  let- 
ter." 

"It  was  just  that  I  came  here  to  talk  about." 

"What  folly!  There  is  something  much  more 
important  to  be  talked  about.  There  is  Estella." 

"I  do  not  share  your  anxiety  about  Estella." 

" There  is  no  need  to  tell  her,"  Mrs.  Somers  went 
on.  "Mr.  Watson  has  been  to  see  me.  He  has 
the  same  as  promised  me  to  leave  the  city." 

"Promised!"  exclaimed  the  other.  "Do  you 
mean  you  exacted  such  a  promise,  in  my  name?  " 

"I  don't  mean  promised,  but  of  course  it  would 
be  better  for  him  to  go." 


ROGER  HUNT.  317 

"I  don't  see  why.  Whether  he  goes  or  stays, 
he  must  act  on  his  own  wish  entirely.  I  shall  see 
him  myself." 

"And  Estella?"  she  urged. 

"I  shall  know  what  to  do  with  Estella.  Just 
now  I  wish  to  speak  with  you.  That  letter  "  — 

"Roger,  how  can  you  be  so  silly!"  and  she 
rose  quickly  to  her  feet.  "One  would  think," 
wheeling  and  facing  him,  "that  I  was  the  one  on 
trial  here." 

"So  you  are." 

"Indeed!"  drawing  herself  up.  "And  what 
are  the  charges,  pray?" 

"  The  charges  are  those  that  spring  always  from 
betrayed  trust  and  friendship." 

"Friendship!  Our  friendship  ended  eighteen 
years  ago." 

"To  outward  recognition,  perhaps."  She 
looked  at  him  in  astonishment. 

"  What  do  you  mean?  "  she  asked  haughtily. 

"When  I  chose  to  be  my  own  master,  and  threw 
off  the  yoke  society  and  the  world  had  imposed, 
the  world  and  your  precious  '  society '  denounced 
me  with  virtuous  indignation.  You  tried  to  do 
so,  too,  but  in  your  secret  heart " 

"Oh" —  The  sound  was  like  a  wail  and  an- 
gry protest  combined.  "And  if  ever  I  did  try  to 
speak  an  excusing  word  for  you,  I  am  well  repaid 
for  it  now,  —  well  repaid !  " 

"You  are  a  woman  of  unusual  strength  of  char- 
acter," he  went  on,  unheeding,  "but  of  some 


318  ROGER  HUNT. 

marked  weaknesses  as  well,  which  it  is  necessary 
some  one  should  point  out  to  you.  You  think  it 
was  love  of  truth  that  made  you  turn  against  me. 
You  pride  yourself  on  your  moral  courage,  but  I 
call  it  moral  cowardice.  I  wish  you  to  know  that 
I  stand  by  every  action  of  my  past  life.  I  can 
stand  alone  if  need  be." 

"That  is  doubtless  a  great  virtue,"  she.  replied. 
Her  better  judgment  and  sense  of  propriety  told 
her  this  discussion  should  end,  but  it  was  impos- 
sible not  to  answer  him. 

"Self-reliance  is  a  very  good  thing;  perhaps 
there  is  nothing  better,  unless  it  is  a  little  humil- 
ity. For  my  part  I  have  learned  that  other  peo- 
ple are,  on  the  whole,  as  wise  and  as  good  as  I  am. 
I  admire  courage  as  much  as  you  do.  I,  too,  can 
stand  alone,  but  I  trust  I  am  guiltless  of  the  van- 
ity that  is  always  courting  occasions  for  that  kind 
of  display." 

"Most  people  select  their  occasions  very  care- 
fully. True  freedom  knows  nothing  of  occasions; 
it  lives  in  its  own  atmosphere,  like  love.  If  you 
lived  in  China  you  would  think  it  your  duty  to 
hobble  around  on  deformed  feet,  as  other  women 
do." 

"  Very  likely,  if  I  had  never  seen  a  woman  with 
feet  of  natural  size.  My  mental  servility  is 
proved,  I  suppose,  by  the  fact  that  some  of  my 
opinions  run  counter  to  yours.  You  talk  of  free- 
dom very  eloquently,  but  you  have  not  yet  learned 
to  yield  it  to  another.  Where  you  cannot  domi- 


ROGER  HUNT.  319 

nate,  you  begin  to  abuse !  It  was  always  so.  When 
you  were  young  there  was  not  a  friend  who  ever 
differed  from  you  on  any  point  touching  your  in- 
terest or  self-love  but  was  made  to  suffer  for  it." 

"You  seem  to  be  taking  some  freedom,  now." 

"I  mean  to.  You,  to  talk  to  me  of  the  power 
of  friendship,  of  faithfulness!"  she  added,  with 
heightened  color,  and  in  a  voice  that  trembled  in 
spite  of  her  effort  to  keep  it  steady;  "to  prate  to 
me  of  loyalty,  —  you,  who  broke  the  most  sacred 
ties,  who  violated  your  home,  deserted  your  wife 
and  child,  placed  the  stigma  of  a  dishonored  name 
on  those  who  look  to  you  for  protection ;  who  even 
now  traduce  and  complain  of  the  woman  who 
blindly  sacrificed  everything  for  you,  —  you  to  talk 
of  faithfulness !  You  do  not  understand  its  small- 
est principle."  She  paused  with  flashing  eye  and 
heaving  breast.  He  was  deeply  offended,  but  if 
she  had  thought  to  arouse  any  other  feeling  of 
shame  or  self -judgment,  she  was  disappointed. 

"You  repeat  the  shallow  platitudes  of  your  set 
and  your  circle,"  he  answered  her.  "My  actions 
are  beyond  the  comprehension  of  minds  that  reason 
as  yours  does.  Yours  can  reason  better  when  it 
tries.  Now  I  can  prove  to  you  " 

"Oh,  you  can  prove  anything,  I  have  no  doubt, 
but  I  am  not  in  a  mood  for  dialectics.  Casuistry 
isn't  niy  forte.  Come,  I  am  tired  of  this,  — tired 
and  ashamed,"  and  she  waved  her  hand,  to  end  the 
discussion. 

"Not  yet,"  he  replied.     "You  have  said  what 


320  ROGER  HUNT. 

you  wished  to  say,  have  spoken  freely  and  fear- 
lessly, but,  I  repeat,  you  have  not  spoken  sin- 
cerely." Again  that  hint  of  unpleasant  suggestion 
in  his  tone.  "You  try  to  persuade  yourself  you 
are  angry  with  me,  that  you  dislike  and  distrust 
me,  — but  you  do  not."  She  drew  herself  up  and 
looked  at  him  steadily.  "We  were  good  friends 
once,"  in  a  changed  tone,  and  with  seeming  hesi- 
tancy. "  I  never  could  understand  just  what  it  was 
came  between  us." 

"Came  between  us!  "  she  gasped. 

"We  understood  each  other  perfectly.  There 
was  no  one  I  could  talk  to  as  freely  as  to  you. 
And  you  —  you  liked  to  talk  with  me.  Is  it  not 
true?  "  She  clenched  her  hand  and  bit  her  lip, 
her  color  coming  and  going. 

"Yes,  we  were  good  friends!  When  I  went 
away,  as  I  have  said,  you  thought  fit  to  join  the 
general  outcry  against  me.  You  would  not  stand 
up  against  the  world,  and  your  husband  " 

"My  husband!  How  dare  you  bring  George 
into  a  discussion  of  this  kind!  He  was  your 
friend.  He  said  what  he  could  to  excuse  and  con- 
done your  conduct.  He  had  as  much  courage  as 
you." 

"You  mistake  me.  George  was  a  good  fellow. 
He  wrote  me  a  letter  I  never  forgave;  but  I  let 
that  pass,  now.  And  you  —  you  acted  according 
to  your  nature,  that  is,  according  to  one  side  of  it, 
the  side  that  is  afraid.  There  is  another  side, 
which,  properly  guided  and  supported,  would  be 


ROGER  HUNT.  321 

afraid  of  nothing;  but  it  has  been  kept  in  subjec- 
tion so  long  to  the  other  and  lower  that  it  is  doubt- 
ful if  it  ever  rises  above  it  now." 

"Thank  you  for  the  doubt,"  she  interjected  sar- 
castically. She  was  recovering  herself.  At  first 
a  wild  apprehension  had  seized  her  that  he  was 
going  to  make  love  to  her.  A  man  can  do  this 
when  denouncing  and  upbraiding  a  woman  as  well 
as  when  openly  praising  and  seeking  her  favor. 

"No,  it  will  never  predominate  now,"  he  con- 
tinued, heedless  of  her  sarcasm,  and  looking  at 
her  reflectively.  "You  will  always  be  about  the 
woman  you  are,  mistaking  the  conventional  for 
the  real,  prejudice  for  conviction,  yet  cherishing 
thoughts  and  an  ideal  of  life  very  different,  which 
you  did  not  hesitate  to  avow  when  you  were 
younger,  and  which  —  I  speak  with  unusual  frank- 
ness, I  know  —  the  sight  and  remembrance  of  me 
always  awakens." 

"Are  you  a  man,  to  talk  to  a  woman  like  this!  " 

"I  speak  as  one  freed  spirit  to  another.  Yours 
is  not  wholly  freed,  and  never  will  be;  yet  you 
understand  me." 

"I  understand  nothing.  You  are  a  monster  of 
egotism!  That  is  all  I  know." 

"  I  am  a  man  of  some  consistency  of  purpose,  if 
that  is  what  you  mean.  Come,"  he  added,  with 
a  still  bolder  touch,  "if  what  I  have  said  is  not 
true ;  if,  in  spite  of  all  that  has  happened  you  do 
not  trust  me,  and  —  and  regard  me  with  some 
kindness,  why,  when  we  met  each  other  acciden- 


322  ROGER  HUNT. 

tally  two  months  ago,  did  your  looks  and  words  so 
report  you?  Why  did  you  not  send  me  on  my 
way?  Why  did  you  ask  to  have  Estella  remain 
here  with  you?" 

"Estella!  Was  it  possible  to  see  that  poor 
child,  to  know  what  I  know,  and  not  feel  for  her, 
not  wish  tD  be  her  friend  !"  She  paused  a  mo- 
ment, while  the  full  meaning  of  his  words  slowly 
dawned  on  her.  She  turned  white  with  out- 
raged womanly  feeling.  "  Why  did  I  receive  Es- 
tella? "  she  exclaimed.  "Do  you  mean —  Oh,  this 
is  too  much !  We  have  had  more  than  enough  of 
this.  I  ask  you,  sir,  to  leave  me,"  with  an  imperi- 
ous wave  of  the  hand.  He  colored  and  opened  his 
lips  to  speak. 

"Not  another  word,"  she  exclaimed.  "Leave 
me."  There  was  no  mistaking  her.  Even  the 
man  before  her  was  unable  to  support  her  look, 
and  seemed  to  grow  sensibly  smaller  in  her  pres- 
ence. With  a  crestfallen  air  he  left  the  house. 

She  flew  to  her  room,  where  she  paced  up  and 
down  excitedly  for  a  few  moments,  then  suddenly 
stood  still.  She  remembered  Estella.  What 
should  she  say  to  her?  That  she  had  turned  her 
father  out  of  the  house  ?  What  would  he,  Roger, 
do  next?  Would  he  remember  he  had  a  daughter 
in  Monroe,  and  that  the  ostensible  object  of  his 
visit  was  to  see  her?  Then  if  he  came  to  the 
house  again,  what  must  she  do,  how  must  she  be- 
have? She  had  something  to  think  of  here  be- 
sides her  own  insulted  dignity  as  a  woman.  That 


ROGER  HUNT.  323 

is  the  inconvenience  of  tragedy  in  common  life! 
The  curtain  does  not  fall  leaving  a  long  blank  of 
darkness  and  silence  as  on  the  stage.  On  the  con- 
trary it  leaves  things  about  as  it  found  them. 
Dinner  must  be  ordered  and  cooked  the  same  as 
before,  the  appointment  kept  with  the  dressmaker. 
We  must  wear  as  composed  and  cheerful  faces  as 
though  we  had  not  just  escaped  drowning  in  an 
emotional  whirlpool. 

Mrs.  Somers  was  not  fond  of  the  sensational, 
and  passed  the  day  in  the  moral  abasement  that 
naturally  follows  such  a  scene,  in  a  mind  disposed 
to  rational  behavior.  Externally  she  was  nervous 
and  excited,  and  kept  moving  restlessly  about  the 
room.  Catching  sight  of  her  husband's  picture, 
a  small  framed  photograph  that  stood  on  the  man- 
tel, she  did  a  curious  thing.  Going  towards  it, 
she  leaned  her  arms  on  the  mantel  and  looked  for 
a  long  time  into  the  eyes  of  the  portrait. 

"Did  you  hear  him?  "  she  asked  at  last,  silently. 
"Wasn't  it  shameful?  Wasn't  it  ridiculous? 
At  first  I  was  terribly  angry.  I  am  angry  still, 
of  course;  but  what  is  the  use?  One  might  as 
well  be  angry  with  the  ravings  of  a  sick  man  ! 
He  has  not  changed  at  all!  Sometimes  I  think 
nobody  ever  does  change  —  much,  unless  it  is  in 
heaven.  And  he  thinks  you  are  a  '  good  fellow. ' ' 
A  low  laugh,  half  like  a  sob,  escaped  her,  and  she 
dropped  her  head  a  moment  on  the  marble  slab. 
"But  I  hope  you  won't  change,  even  there,"  she 
began  again,  raising  it.  "You  mustn't  get  too  far 


324  ROGER  HUNT. 

ahead  of  me.  Yes,  I  know  I  was  foolish,  to  stay 
there  talking  with  him  so  long;  but  what  could  I 
do?  I  kept  thinking  of  Estella.  You  don't  think 
I  ought  to  give  up  Estella?  She  hasn't  a  friend 
in  the  world  !  I  knew  you  couldn't  want  me  to 
do  that.  What  do  I  care  what  such  a  man  as  that 
thinks?  What  should  either  of  us  care?" 

She  took  the  little  picture  in  her  hands,  looked 
at  it  a  moment  longer,  then  pressed  her  lips  against 
the  cold  glass.  Her  breath  obscured  it,  covering 
it  with  a  faint  mist,  which  soon  passed,  however, 
like  the  little  clouds  that  sometimes  used  to  arise 
and  shadow  their  marital  skies. 


XX. 

ASSISTANT  WATSON'S  pupils  pronounced  his 
behavior,  the  Monday  following  his  visit  to  Mrs. 
Somers,  more  difficult  to  support  than  usual. 
Even  Estella  noticed  it,  and  found  some  cause  of 
blame.  He  avoided  looking  at  her,  and  made  brief 
answers  when  she  spoke  to  him.  During  the  half 
hour  intermission  at  noon,  when  he  saw  her  ap- 
proaching the  desk,  he  rose  abruptly  and  left  the 
room.  She  was  a  little  hurt,  but  tried  to  excuse 
him,  supposing  something  had  gone  wrong  with  his 
work. 

Watson,  reflecting  on  Mrs.  Somers's  wish,  while 
he  still  did  not  perceive  its  necessity  as  she  did, 
and  felt  the  slight  it  offered  to  his  own  plans  and 
rights  in  the  matter,  resolved  to  yield  to  it  and  to 
leave  Monroe.  She  could  not  know  the  practical 
difficulties  attendant  on  such  a  change,  or  she  would 
not  have  felt  so  free  to  suggest  it.  To  leave  his 
present  position  meant  the  hindrance  and  perhaps 
the  complete  breaking  up  of  his  life-plans. 

In  the  first  place  Charles  Watson  was  poor. 
The  money  left  by  his  father  had  been  invested  by 
his  aunt  in  a  concern  that  seemed  to  her  all  the 
safer,  because  it  was  cloaked  in  a  great  deal  of  out- 
ward piety.  The  president  was  a  member  in  high- 


326  ROGER  HUNT. 

est  standing  of  the  church,  and  prominent  on  mis- 
sionary boards  and  in  similar  enterprises.  It  was 
said  he  called  all  his  employes  together  every  morn- 
ing for  prayers.  His  business  was  supported  by 
the  contributions  of  his  admirers,  who  were  glad  to 
believe  they  were  making  a  good  investment  of 
their  money,  and  serving  the  cause  of  religion  at 
the  same  time.  Miss  Watson  was  one  of  the  lar- 
gest subscribers,  but  did  not  live  to  know  the  de- 
ception that  had  been  practiced  on  her.  She  died 
urging  her  nephew  to  live  a  godly  life,  and  to  fol- 
low in  the  footsteps  of  the  man  who,  he  learned  a 
few  weeks  later,  had  squandered  every  dollar  in- 
trusted to  his  care.  The  revelations  connected  with 
this  gigantic  swindle,  from  which  so  many  others 
suffered  besides  himself,  and  who  could  far  less 
afford  to,  gave  the  young  man  a  deep  moral  shock. 
His  faith  was  destroyed  in  a  new  direction.  Hith- 
erto it  had  not  been  difficult  to  believe  that  reli- 
gious heresy  was  a  synonym  for  the  worst  immoral- 
ity; but  now  the  shame  and  perplexity  of  his 
father's  example  was  balanced  by  this  other  discov- 
ery of  betrayed  trust.  The  spirit  of  misanthropic 
doubt  arose  anew,  and  embittered  his  entire  outlook 
on  life,  which  seemed  now  equally  barren  of  hope 
for  himself  and  belief  in  his  kind. 

Coming  to  Monroe,  he  had  not  tried  to  make 
friends  or  social  acquaintances,  living  by  himself, 
and  performing  his  duties  in  a  mechanical  manner ; 
inspired  by  no  cheerful  prospects,  or  the  desire  to 
please  any  one  dear  to  him,  simply  by  the  necessity 


ROGER  HUNT.  327 

to  live.  He  had  felt  strangely  attracted  to  his  new 
pupil  from  the  first,  and  though  the  knowledge 
that  she  was  his  half-sister  had  been  at  first  a  little 
repugnant  to  him,  that  feeling  had  quickly  passed ; 
and  another,  the  right  of  ownership,  the  claim  to 
acknowledge  and  be  blessed  in  this  new  relation 
had  arisen ;  so  that  the  duty  of  denying  himself  all 
this,  even  for  her  good,  was  a  hard  one.  It  seemed 
to  him,  now  that  he  was  about  to  be  deprived  of 
it,  a  sister  was  of  all  human  ties  and  relations  that 
which  he  most  craved  and  needed.  He  felt,  too, 
he  could  be  of  use  and  service  to  Estella.  She 
liked  him ;  but  there  were  her  father  and  mother, 
whom  she  must  love  best,  of  course.  The  affec- 
tion he  could  offer  could  not  be  accepted  without 
to  some  degree  displacing  and  dishonoring  other 
feelings,  Mrs.  Somers  was  right;  he  must  not 
think  of  himself. 

The  work  of  the  day  ended  at  last,  and  he  was 
alone  in  the  empty  schoolroom.  He  sat  behind  his 
desk,  his  head  supported  on  one  hand,  in  an  attitude 
that  brought  out  some  resemblance  to  his  father. 
He  was  lost  in  painful  thoughts.  The  noise  of 
the  departing  pupils  in  the  hall  outside  had  died 
away,  and  the  building,  except  for  the  sound  of  the 
janitor  moving  about  in  another  room,  shutting 
windows,  seemed  deserted.  As  he  sat  there  mo- 
tionless and  absorbed,  he  did  not  hear  the  door 
quietly  open,  nor  note  the  visitor  who  entered  and 
paused  a  moment  just  inside.  As  he  stepped  for- 
ward, with  a  slight  air  of  embarrassment,  Watson 


328  ROGER  HUNT. 

looked  up,  and  the  eyes  of  father  and  son  met.  lie 
knew  him  at  once,  and  rose  from  his  chair,  his  dark 
skin  turning  to  a  sickly  pallor.  He  kept  his  eyes 
fixed  on  the  approaching  figure,  but  did  not  speak. 
Roger,  too,  waited  a  perceptible  space,  after  reach- 
ing the  desk  and  pausing  before  it. 

"  I  need  not  introduce  myself,  I  see.  You  recog- 
nize me." 

The  one  whom  he  addressed  turned  paler  still. 
His  lips  tightened,  and  his  nostrils  quivered  a  lit- 
tle. A  tremor  of  mingled  pain  and  loathing  swept 
over  his  face. 

"You  are  my  father!  "  he  said  at  last,  with  an 
effort.  Roger  bowed. 

"I  only  learned  the  day  before  yesterday  that 
you  were  here.  If  I  had  known  it  when  I  was  in 
town  before,  I  should  have  sought  you  out."  His 
son  looked  at  him  in  dull  surprise.  He  was  quite 
unprepared  for  the  easy,  unconcerned  tone  in  which 
these  words  were  spoken. 

"You  would  have  sought  me  out?"  he  repeated. 

"  Certainly.  Why  not  ?  We  meet  in  a  rather 
strange  way,  I  admit;  but  I  have  never  cherished 
any  ill-will  towards  you." 

The  young  man  looked  at  him. 

"Thank  you." 

"Why  should  I  have  cherished  any  unkind  feel- 
ing towards  you  ?"  his  father  asked.  "You  were 
but  a  child  when  —  when  " 

"When  you  deserted  my  mother  and  me,"  the 
son  finished. 


ROGEE  HUNT.  329 

"I  never  deserted  you.  I  gave  you  your  choice 
to  come  with  me  if  you  wished." 

"  You  gave  a  boy  six  years  old  his  choice !  But 
I  have  never  ceased  to  be  gratef  ul'that  I  knew  how 
to  make  one,  even  then." 

Roger  paid  no  attention  to  this. 

"I  also  gave  your  aunt  instructions  to  send  you 
to  me,  if  that  suited  either  her  wish  or  yours.  It 
did  not  surprise  me  that  she  did  not  choose  to  do 
so,  to  learn  afterward  that  she  had  deprived  you 
of  your  right  name,  and  bestowed  that  of  her  own 
respectable  ancestor  in  its  place.  She  has  done  all 
she  could  to  prejudice  you  against  me,  of  course." 

"She  could  not  'prejudice  '  me  so  much  as  your 
own  actions  have  done." 

"I  did  not  come  here  to  be  brought  to  account  by 
my  own  son,"  Roger  exclaimed  angrily. 

"  Your  son !  I  am  not  your  son !  I  repudiate 
any  such  dishonorable  title.  We  are  strangers  — 
aliens  in  every  fibre.  The  breadth  of  the  universe 
lies  between  us."  His  father  looked  at  hinvwith 
cold  dislike. 

"You  speak  the  truth  more  nearly  than  you 
know,  though  I  was  the  first  to  discover  it,  and 
though  I  came  here  in  the  hope  of  disproving  it. 
It  was  because  I  saw  the  natural  antagonism  be- 
tween us,  even  when  you  were  a  child,  that  I  felt 
justified  in  leaving  you.  I  saw  how  little  alike  we 
were  in  anything.  You  belong  distinctly  to  your 
mother's  family  " 

"I  thank  heaven,"  said  the  young  man  quickly. 


330  ROGER  HUNT. 

"I  gladly  stand  in  my  mother's  debt  for  all  that  I 
am  and  have,  though  I  must  inherit  her  suffering, 
too." 

"Her  suffering!  "  Roger  replied  ironically. 
"You  will  please  observe  that  I  disclaim  all  re- 
sponsibility for  your  mother's  'suffering  '  !  " 

"Do  not  speak  of  my  mother,  sir!  Is  it  not 
enough  that  you  deserted  her,  a  sick  and  helpless 
woman,  whom  you  had  placed  in  the  hands  of 
strangers,  that  you  must  insult  her  memory  now?" 
Roger  looked  at  him  a  moment  with  a  singular  ex- 
pression, in  which  curiosity,  anger,  some  faint  pity, 
too,  played  back  and  forth,  with  a  rising  resolve, 
which  he  hesitated  to  execute. 

"  So  that  is  the  story  with  which  your  pious  aunt 
has  regaled  you?"  he  asked  at  length,  with  curling 
lip.  "It  is  false  from  beginning  to  end!"  The 
other  started,  and  stepped  towards  him  with  a 
threatening  look,  but  something  in  his  father's  eyes 
checked  him.  A  cold  fear  suddenly  clutched  his 
heart. 

"Your  mother"  —  Roger  began  again,  but  hesi- 
tated. Even  he  shrank  from  the  thing  he  was 
about  to  do,  but  the  demon  of  self -justification  had 
him  in  his  grasp. 

"Your  mother  died  in  an  inebriate  asylum!  " 

"What !     Oh,  this  is  infamous !  " 

"It  is  perfectly  true.  I  have  the  certificate  of 
her  death,  duly  witnessed  and  sealed.  Your  aunt 
knew  this  as  well  as  I.  What  her  object  was  in 
concealing  the  truth  from  you,  I  do  not  know." 


ROGER  HUNT.  331 

Some  fatal  instinct  told  Watson  his  father  spoke 
the  truth.  There  had  always  been  a  mystery  about 
his  mother.  A  hundred  confirming  signs  and  cir- 
cumstances rushed  back  to  substantiate  what  he 
had  heard.  The  passion  died  out  of  his  face,  leav- 
ing only  its  look  of  misery.  His  clenched  hand 
fell  to  his  side.  He  sank  down  into  his  chair  and 
let  his  head  drop  on  his  arms,  uttering  a  groan  of 
despair. 

"You  might  have  spared  me  this." 

"  So  I  would,  had  you  spared  me.  I  am  not  re- 
sponsible for  the  foolish  delusions  others  practiced 
on  you.  You  see,  yourself,  they  have  accomplished 
nothing." 

"Nothing!  "  the  other  repeated  drearily,  raising 
his  head.  "  I  know  now  I  have  had  neither  father 
nor  mother." 

"I  stand  ready  to  be  your  father,  if  we  can 
arrive  at  an  understanding."  His  son's  face  was 
turned  from  him,  and  he  did  not  see  the  expression 
of  repugnance  that  flitted  across  it.  After  a  few 
more  remarks  of  a  preliminary  nature,  Roger  made 
him  an  offer.  He  had  made  some  inquiries  and 
learned  his  situation.  He  now  offered  to  bear  the 
expense  of  his  further  studies  and  settle  ten  thou- 
sand dollars  on  him.  There  was  but  one  condition, 
that  he  should  change  his  name,  and  thus  acknow- 
ledge their  relation.  This  offer  was  proudly  de- 
clined. Roger  was  not  surprised,  but  had  the  sense 
of  duty  performed. 

"As  you  please,"  he  said  coldly.      "Only  bear 


332  ROGER  HUNT. 

in  mind  I  have  nothing  to  conceal  here  or  else- 
where. I  rely  on  the  simple  truth  to  support  me, 
always." 

"The  truth!  "  exclaimed  the  other  scornfully, 
his  first  feeling's  returning.  "  Who  has  outraged 
truth  more  than  you,  profaned  everything  that  is 
sacred  "  — 

There  was  another  listener  to  these  words.  Es- 
tella,  who  had  gone  to  the  laboratory  after  school, 
returning,  went  towards  the  schoolroom,  ostensi- 
bly to  get  a  book,  but  hoping  for  a  chance  to  speak 
with  Mr.  Watson.  The  door  had  been  left  slightly 
ajar,  and  looking  through,  she  saw  with  amazement 
her  father  and  teacher  talking  together.  She  drew 
back,  hesitating  whether  to  go  forward  or  to  retire, 
when  the  young  assistant's  words  of  passionate  de- 
nunciation reached  her  ear.  She  listened  eagerly 
to  what  followed. 

"That  will  do,"  she  heard  her  father  say.  "I 
did  not  come  here  to  be  insulted." 

"What  did  you  come  for?" 

"Simply  to  learn  your  own  wish  and  intention 
respecting  the  future.  I  learn  from  Mrs.  Somers 
that  you  have  told  something  of  your  history  to 
Estella." 

"You  need  not  fear  for  Estella.  She  will  learn 
nothing  more  from  me." 

"You  mistake  my  meaning;  there  is  no  reason 
why  Estella  should  not  know  the  truth."  His  son 
looked  at  him  with  new  indignation. 

"Do  you  wish  to  drive  her  to  despair?" 


ROGER  HUNT.  333 

"What  folly!  What  harm  can  there  be  in  Es- 
tella's  knowing  that  her  father  has  been  married 
twice,  and  that  you  are  her  half-brother?  It  is 
not  my  fault  she  has  not  known  it  before." 

"How  will  you  explain  this  second  marriage?" 
his  son  asked  cuttingly.  "  Will  you  tell  her  the 
first  wife  was  living,  and  helpless  to  protect  her- 
self, when  you  left  her  in  the  company  of  another 
woman  ?  Will  you  explain  that  for  more  than  two 
years  before  she  became  your  wife  she  was  your  " 

"  Stop  !  "  thundered  Roger,  striking  his  clenched 
hand  on  the  desk,  with  a  force  that  made  the  room 
ring.  But  it  was  too  late,  the  fatal  word  had  been 
spoken ;  Estella  heard  it.  The  two  men  heard  a 
low  moan,  and  turning  quickly,  saw  the  door  open, 
pushed  inwards  by  a  falling  figure.  The  next  mo- 
ment Estella  lay  unconscious  across  the  threshold. 

"Great  heavens!  "  exclaimed  Watson,  "she  has 
heard  us !  "  He  rushed  forward  and  lifted  her  in 
his  arms,  carrying  her  to  a  wooden  bench  near 
by.  He  and  Roger  worked  together  to  restore  her, 
chafing  her  hands  and  bathing  her  face. 

"This  is  your  work!  "  Roger  declared,  pausing  a 
moment  in  his  labors,  and  glancing  angrily  at  his 
son.  The  latter  groaned  and  attempted  no  reply. 
He  did  not  think  for  a  moment  of  the  wicked  in- 
justice of  such  a  charge ;  it  rather  seemed  to  him 
true.  The  thought  that  Estella  had  heard  those 
horrible  words  of  his  filled  him  with  anguish. 

In  a  short  time  the  stricken  girl  opened  her  eyes, 
but  when  she  recognized  her  surroundings,  and  re- 


334  EOGEE  HUNT. 

membered  what  had  passed,  she  groaned  and  closed 
them  again,  against  the  sight  of  both  father  and 
brother.  Her  father  went  out  to  find  a  carriage. 

Left  alone  together,  and  Estella  more  fully  re- 
stored, she  and  her  teacher  could  not  look  at  each 
other.  Watson  longed  to  implore  her  forgiveness, 
but  something  in  that  white,  suffering  face,  so 
young  to  bear  the  impress  of  such  woe,  forbade 
him  to  intrude  himself  upon  her.  They  stood 
mute  and  helpless  before  each  other,  clothed  in  a 
common  misery,  which  had  not  yet  the  power  to 
draw  them  nearer  together.  Estella  could  not 
raise  her  eyes  to  his,  and  he  could  not  have  borne 
their  look,  if  she  had.  In  silence  he  helped  her 
gather  up  her  things,  and  without  a  word  led  her 
outside,  down  the  steps  to  the  carriage,  the  door 
of  which  her  father  held  open. 

Only  once'  was  a  word  exchanged  between  Roger 
and  his  daughter  as  they  drove  towards  home.  The 
subject  uppermost  in  the  minds  of  both  was  not 
one  that  could  be  discussed.  Shrinking  into  the 
corner  of  the  carriage,  Estella  covered  her  face 
with  her  hands  and  gave  way  to  a  passionate  burst 
of  grief.  Her  father  let  it  have  way  a  few  mo- 
ments, then  spoke  to  her,  calling  her  by  name,  to 
quiet  and  remind  her  where  they  were. 

"Do  not  speak  to  me!  "  she  exclaimed,  and  drew 
still  further  away  from  him.  He  bit  his  lip  and 
looked  displeased,  but  said  nothing  more. 

It  was  a  day  of  catastrophes.  Just  within  the 
door  they  met  Mrs.  Somers,  who  had  a  telegram 


ROGER  HUNT.  335 

in  her  hand,  directed  to  Roger.  She  was  about  to 
leave  the  house  to  find  a  messenger  and  send  it  to 
him.  He  tore  open  the  envelope.  The  message 
informed  him  that  his  wife  was  much  worse,  and 
bade  him  and  Estella  return  home  at  once. 

Estella,  without  heeding  or  seeming  to  hear  this 
latest  news,  climbed  the  stairs  slowly  to  her  room. 

"What  is  the  matter?"  Mrs.  Somers  asked, 
looking  after  her,  then  at  Roger  with  sharp  dis- 
trust. 

He  told  her  Estella  had  been  ill,  and  added 
a  stiff  apology  for  his  own  reappearance.  Mrs. 
Somers  at  once  divined  more. 

"You  have  told  her!  "  she  exclaimed  rebukingly. 
"Roger  Hunt,  you  are  the  cruelest  man  living  !  " 

"I  have  told  her  nothing,"  he  retorted  angrily. 

"Then  how  did  she  find  it  out?  Not  through 
Mr.  Watson,  I  am  sure!  " 

"You  are  mistaken.  It  was  through  Mr.  Wat- 
son she  found  it  out." 

"Oh,  how  shameful!" 

"  There  is  no  need  of  wasting  time  in  reproaches. 
My  son  and  I  were  talking  together  in  the  school- 
room, and  she  overheard  us." 

"Yo»  said  he  told  her." 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  Roger  loftily.  "I 
said  she  learned  it  through  him."  She  gave  it  up, 
and  turned  her  attention  to  the  telegram. 

"There  is  a  train  leaves  at  six  o'clock,"  Roger 
said,  consulting  his  watch.  "Tell  Estella  to  be 
ready.  I  will  call  for  her,"  and  he  took  a  hurried 
leave. 


33G  ROGER  HUNT. 

Mrs.  Somers  went  up  to  Estella1  s  room  and 
knocked.  There  was  no  response,  and  after  wait- 
ing a  moment,  she  opened  the  door  and  stepped  in- 
side. The  girl  was  sitting  on  the  edge  of  the  bed, 
Jier  hands  clasped  tightly  together,  her  eyes  staring 
vacantly  before  her.  She  turned  quickly  at  the 
sound  of  Mrs.  Somers's  entrance,  then  threw  out 
her  hands  to  ward  her  off. 

"Don't  come  in  here,  Mrs.  Somers.  Leave  me 
alone,  please."  Mrs.  Somers  went  directly  to  her, 
sitting  beside  her,  and  clasping  her  in  her  arms. 
The  girl  struggled  to  free  herself,  but  could  not, 
then  submitted,  but  kept  her  face  turned  from  her 
friend. 

"  Estella !  I  have  some  bad  news  for  you.  Try 
to  be  brave  and  bear  it." 

"I  know  it  already,  Mrs.  Somers.  I  know 
everything." 

"I  am  speaking  of  your  mother,  Estella."  The 
girl  shuddered,  and  again  tried  to  release  herself. 

"  She  is  worse  ;  she  is  in  a  very  dangerous 
state.  You  must  return  home  with  your  father  to- 
night." 

"Home,"  wailed  the  girl  in  a  despairful  voice. 
"I  can  never  go  home  again."  * 

"Estella,  listen  tome.  I  know  all  that  has  hap- 
pened; you  have  had  a  hard  blow.  I  shall  not 
pretend  it  is  easy  to  bear,  or  of  little  account,  but 
you  are  not  to  think  of  that  now;  you  are  to 
think  only  of  your  mother." 

"My  mother  !  "    She  wrenched  herself  free,  and 


ROGER  HUNT.  337 

stood  upright.      "Why  did  not  my  mother  think  of 
me?" 

"Estefla,  that  is  wicked!  " 

"Yes,  I  suppose  so,"  with  youthful  bitterness. 
"But  I  have  a  right  to  be  wicked  now.  When 
people  do  wrong  things,  why  do  they  think  of 
themselves  only?"  she  went  on  excitedly.  "Why 
do  they  make  others  suffer,  who  are  not  to  blame?  " 

"I  shan't  try  to  answer  any  of  your  hard  ques- 
tions, Estella,"  but  she  did.  "How  can  a  wrong 
action  stop  with  the  one  who  performs  it,  more  than 
a  good  one?  We  don't  want  the  good  actions  to 
stop.  You  are  not  to  judge  your  mother,  Estella," 
Mrs.  Somerswent  on  more  seriously.  "Remember 
that.  What  do  you  know  of  life  or  its  struggles? 
Your  mother  is  your  mother.  That  is  all  you  have 
any  right  to  think  about,  now.  Has  she  not  al- 
ways been  very  good  to  you?  " 

The  young  face  quivered.  "  I  could  have  borne 
it  if  she  had  not;  I  could  bear  anything  better 
than—  Oh,  I  wish  I  could  die,  I  wish  I  could 
die!"  She  threw  herself  again  on  the  bed,  bury- 
ing her  face  in  the  pillow,  shaking  and  sobbing 
with  grief.  Mrs.  Somers  let  the  first  paroxysm 
pass ;  then,  when  she  had  grown  quieter,  took  her 
hand  and  spoke  again. 

"My  dear,  listen  to  me.  You  have  been  hurt, 
cruelly  hurt,  in  a  way  you  will  not  forget  for  a 
long  time,  perhaps  never.  But  you  are  a  good, 
right-thinking  girl;  you  can  compel  yourself  to 
act  justly,  even  at  such  a  time  as  this,  if  you  try. 


338  EOGER  HUNT. 

You  are  going  to  try.  I  am  going  to  help  you. 
Now  listen.  Suppose  your  mother  had  been  suf- 
fering all  her  life  from  some  physical  hurt  you  had 
just  learned  about,  and  you  knew  it  was  the  result 
of  an  act  of  careless  disobedience  when  she  was 
a  child.  Would  such  knowledge  change  pity  into 
blame,  destroy  your  love?  " 

"It  is  not  the  same,"  was  the  quick  reply; 
"it  is  not  the  same." 

"It  is  more  nearly  the  same  than  you  know, 
only  you  are  too  young  and  ignorant  to  under- 
stand. Your  mother  is  a  good  woman.  She  de- 
serves all  the  love  and  honor  you  have  ever  given 
her.  But  I  can't  talk  of  these  things  now.  Your 
mother  is  much  worse.  She  loves  and  needs  you. 
Come,  I  will  help  you  to  get  ready.  Your  father 
will  be  here  soon." 

"But  you  are  going  with  me,"  exclaimed  Es- 
tella,  in  new  alarm.  "You  are  not  going  to  send 
me  away  alone !  " 

"Alone!     You  forget  your  father  is  here!  " 

"I  cannot  go  with  my  father;  I  want  you," 
sobbed  the  girl.  "I  cannot  go  without  you." 

Mrs.  Somers  hesitated.  Now  that  the  idea  was 
thus  presented  to  her,  she  believed  she  ought  to  go. 
Estella  was  in  no  condition  to  be  left  to  herself, 
or,  what  was  worse,  to  the  care  of  her  father.  She 
remembered  her  quarrel  with  Roger,  but  it  seemed 
too  petty  to  think  about  now,  compared  with  the 
need  here  disclosed.  In  a  moment  she  had  deter- 
mined. 


ROGER  HUNT.  339 

"Very  well,  I  will  go  with  you." 

Roger  looked  the  surprise  he  felt  when  he  saw 
two  women  descend  the  steps  dressed  for  travel. 

"Estella  wishes  me  to  go  with  her,  and  I  think 
I  ought,"  Mrs.  Somers  explained  briefly. 

"'I  cannot  go  without  Mrs.  Somers,  papa,"  Es- 
tella  added,  in  a  tone  that  mingled  warning  with 
entreaty. 

"I  shall  be  glad  to  have  Mrs.  Somers  go  with 
us,"  said  her  father. 

She  saw  that  he  read  this  action  of  hers,  as  he 
had  others,  in  the  light  of  his  own  complacent 
beliefs,  and  knew  that  he  took  her  presence  as  a 
distinct  sign  of  concession  to  himself.  The  thought 
stung  her  a  little,  but  she  would  not  let  it  deter 
her  from  her  purpose.  To  serve  and  help  Estella 
she  was  prepared,  if  need  be,  to  submit  to  even 
more  disagreeable  things  than  she  had  yet  borne. 
To  let  Roger  Hunt  seriously  interfere  with  this  or 
any  other  plan  of  action  she  considered  just,  would 
be  to  assign  him  an  importance  he  did  not  deserve. 


XXI. 

As  has  been  surmised,  it  was  Estella's  letter 
to  her  mother,  relating  the  interview  with  her 
teacher,  that  had  so  suddenly  loosened  life's  weak- 
ened hold,  and  mercifully,  at  the  moment  when 
new  suffering  for  an  old  misdeed  was  at  its  height, 
and  remorse  too  severe  to  be  borne.  The  greatest 
dread  from  which  Eleanor  had  suffered  all  these 
years  was  about  to  be  realized.  Her  child  stood 
on  the  edge  of  the  discovery  of  her  mother's  shame. 

The  blow  she  had  received  was  the  harder  to 
bear  that  it  had  been  so  innocently  dealt.  The 
horror  and  anguish  Estella  must  suffer,  her  swift 
instinctive  revolt  from  one  she  had  loved  best,  her 
own  helpless  agony,  these  were  the  intense,  de- 
structive emotions  that  seized  and  overwhelmed 
her  in  turn.  The  poor,  spent  frame  could  not  long 
endure  these  spiritual  throes.  One  sinking  spell 
followed  another,  with  one  or  two  violent  hemor- 
rhages that  threatened  to  spill  life  out  at  once  with 
their  red  flow.  Between,  were  periods  of  white 
unconscious  exhaustion,  that 'looked  like  death; 
the  grim  angel  hovering  very  near,  eager  for  his 
own. 

Mrs.  Saunders  was  as  much  puzzled  as  alarmed 
over  this  sudden  change,  and  wholly  unable  to 


EOGER  HUNT.  341 

account  for  it.  She  had  been  out  of  the  room 
when  Eleanor  received  her  letter,  who,  warned  of 
its  direful  effects,  made  a  superhuman  effort,  rose 
partly  from  her  bed  and  concealed  it  before  her 
return.  From  time  to  time  words  of  faintly  spoken 
delirium  dropped  from  the  dying  woman's  lips. 

"Estella,  don't  look  at  me  like  that!  Es- 
tella  —  I  am  your  mother!  "  and  "Roger!  Where 
is  Roger?  —  I  want  Roger!  "  The  doctor  had  been 
hastily  summoned,  arrived  and  looked  at  his  pa- 
tient, and  signified  by  a  look  to  the  nurse  that  the 
end  had  come  at  last.  It  was  he  who  had  dis- 
patched the  message  to  Roger,  returning  to  the 
house  and  remaining  there  as  much  of  the  time  as 
he  could  spare  from  his  other  duties. 

The  sky  was  covered  with  the  pale  gray  light  of 
early  morning  when  the  travelers  reached  their  des- 
tination. The  doctor  met  them  at  the  door,  and 
Roger  went  immediately  to  the  sick-room,  Mrs. 
Somers  and  Estella  stepping  into  the  library  to 
remove  their  wraps  and  await  his  summons.  Es- 
tella's  face  had  a  pinched  and  frightened  look. 
Superstitious  dread,  which  is  the  first  feeling  death 
arouses  in  the  young,  had  for  the  time  benumbed 
other  emofions.  Mrs.  Somers 's  heart  ached  with 
pity  for  her,  as  she  helped  remove  her  bonnet,  but 
she  felt,  also,  a  little  distrust,  and  watched  her 
narrowly.  She  was  full  of  anxious  dread  for  what 
might  happen  next.  In  spite  of  her  evident  agita- 
tion, there  was  something  in  the  girl's  cold,  stolid 
look  that  alarmed  her. 


342  ROGER  HUNT. 

"Estella,"  taking  her  hand  and  speaking  in  a 
low,  urgent  tone.  "Remember,  —  she  is  dying. 
She  must  see  no  difference  —  she  "  — 

• 

"You  need  not  be  afraid  of  me,  Mrs.  Somers," 
Estella  answered  quietly,  and  withdrew  her  hand. 
They  remained  waiting. 

When  Roger  entered  the  room  where  his  wife 
was,  she  lay  like  one  already  dead,  save  for  the 
faint,  irregular  breath.  He  drew  near  the  bed  and 
looked  down  on  her.  Death  could  not  make  that 
face  look  whiter.  Roger's  too  was  colorless.  Severe 
emotions  struggled  in  his  breast  ;  he  bit  his  lips 
to  still  their  trembling.  He  stood  there,  motion- 
less, and  there  was  not  a  sound  in  the  room  to  dis- 
turb the  sleeper ;  but  something  in  that  look  of  his, 
which  had  been  her  strongest  magnet  in  life,  seemed 
to  pierce  the  mists  of  death  and  arrest  the  fleeing 
spirit.  A  quiver  passed  over  her  face,  a  fluttering 
sigh  escaped  her,  and  the  eyes  slowly  uiiclqsed. 
The  film  of  death  was  already  spreading  over  the 
large  blue  iris,  but  a  look  of  consciousness  soon 
gleamed  through.  She  recognized  him,  and  spoke 
his  name  in  an  agitated  whisper.  He  placed  his 
hand  on  hers,  warningly :  — 

"Do  not  try  to  talk,"  he  said  in  a  low  tone. 

She  wound  her  fingers  about  his,  with  a  hold 
that  was  feeble,  but  which  he  could  not  resist,  and 
he  sat  down  on  the  bedside. 

"Don't  leave  me,  Roger,"  she  whispered,  and 
^again  closed  her  eyes. 

At  the  same  moment,  Estella,  whose  ears  were 


ROGER  HUNT.  343 

keenly  alive  to  every  sound  from  that  direction, 
caught  something,  more  with  spirit  than  with  sense, 
made  a  sign  of  silence  to  her  companion,  and 
stepped  softly  to  the  open  door,  where  she  stood 
listening.  The  movement  was  noiseless.  Eleanor 
could  not  have  heard,  yet  seemed  to,  opening  her 
eyes  with  a  look  of  startled  inquiry. 

"Estella! "  she  exclaimed  in  a  sharp  whisper. 

"Hush,"  sa;d  Roger,  quietly.      "She  is  here." 

"Here."  She  threw  a  frightened  glance  around 
the  room.  "  She  is  here  —  Estella  —  Oh,  Estella." 

The  imprisoned  voice  broke  from  its  bounds  and 
escaped  in  a  long,  wailing  cry.  Estella  heard  it. 
It  frightened,  but  it  also  drew  her.  The  long,  sweet 
habit  of  years  was  aroused.  Obedience  sprung 
prompt  and  true  to  guide  her.  With  a  low,  an- 
swering cry  she  sped  across  the  hall  to  her  mo- 
ther's room.  On  the  threshold  she  paused,  scarcely 
a  second,  not  from  any  waning  purpose,  only  scared 
back  an  instant  by  what  she  saw;  her  mother 
struggling  vainly  to  rise,  stretching  out  weak, 
trembling  arms  to  her,  that  seemed  at  once  to 
beckon  and  try  to  shut  out  some  dreaded  sight. 
Again  came  that  wailing  cry,  like  a  prayer  for 
mercy :  "  Estella  —  EsteUa. " 

"Mother  —  Mother!  "  she  cried,  and  springing 
forward  caught  her  in  her  arms,  pressing  her  pas- 
sionately to  her  heart,  letting  wild  tears  of  pity, 
self-reproach,  and  the  orphaned  loss  she  now  felt 
for  the  first  time  rain  down  on  her  face  and  hair. 
It  was  the  first  time  Estella  had  ever  addressed 


344  ROGER  HUNT. 

her  mother  by  the  stronger,  truer  term,  and  the 
occasion  was  fit.  It  was  love's  baptism  and  sign 
of  pardoning  grace.  If  joy  could  kill,  Eleanor's 
spirit  would  have  made  complete  escape  then,  with 
one  glad,  upward  bound ;  as  it  was,  it  only  swooned 
back  into  another  period  of  unconsciousness. 

A  half  hour  passed,  when  the  eyes  again  opened, 
this  time  with  the  light  of  full  intelligence  in  their 
depths.  She  knew  them  all. 

"Mamma,"  cried  Estella,  who  was  kneeling  by 
the  bed,  and  with  a  little  sob  of  happiness,  "You 
are  better  now  —  you  know  us." 

Her  mother  looked  at  her,  infinite  love  and  bless- 
ing in  the  look.  The  doctor  glanced  at  the  nurse, 
and  they  left  the  room.  Mrs.  Somers  would  have 
followed,  but  Eleanor  had  seen  her.  An  expres- 
sion of  pain  crossed  her  face,  and  she  looked  at 
her  appealingly.  Mrs.  Somers  stepped  towards 
her,  took  her  hand  and  bending  above  her,  pressed 
a  long  kiss  of  sisterly  affection  on  her  brow. 
They  looked  into  each  other's  eyes,  and  in  that 
look  Eleanor  tasted  the  first  draught  of  something 
she  had  longed  for  all  her  life,  a  pure  friendship, 
whose  power  to  understand,  console,  and  strengthen 
the  stronger  passion  of  love  often  misses. 

"You  have  been  so  good  to  Estella;  I  wanted 
to  thank  you,"  she  said,  faintly. 

"I  love  Estella,"  was  the  reply.  "It  makes  me 
very  happy  to  be  able  to  do  anything  for  her." 

The  dying  woman  gave  a  long  sigh  of  thankful 
content. 


ROGER  HUNT.  345 

"Love  your  father,  Estella;  take  care  of  him," 
she  said  as  her  look  fell  again  on  the  young  girl, 
kneeling  beside  her.  The  eyes  grew  dimmer  and 
wandered  restlessly.  She  murmured  her  husband's 
name;  he  bent  over  her. 

"Lift  me  up,  Roger."  He  raised  her  in  his 
arms,  sitting  behind  and  letting  her  rest  against 
him.  She  moved  her  head  until  her  cheek  lay 
against  his  breast.  In  the  midst  of  her  racking 
grief  and  fright,  the  thought  sped  across  Estella 's 
brain  that  never  before  had  she  seen  her  father 
and  mother  like  this. 

"  Do  you  love  me,  Roger  ?  Say  you  love  me.  I 
am  dying,  Roger." 

Mrs.  Somers  had  turned  away,  and  'could  not 
see  him.  If  she  had,  she  would  have  pitied  him. 
He  was  suffering  acutely.  His  face  was  blanched 
and  nearly  convulsed  with  the  emotions  fighting  in 
his  breast;  but  he  could  not  be  other  than  him- 
self, even  in  such  a  moment.  Perhaps,  for  a  pass- 
ing instant  he  wished  he  could;  perhaps  he,  too, 
rebelled  against  that  iron  in  his  blood  which  would 
not  let  him  yield.  His  bearded  lips  rested  a  mo- 
ment on  her  cheek,  but  he  did  not  speak. 

Happily,  those  who  go  through  the  world  hun- 
gering for  love  need  so  very  little!  A  peaceful 
smile  spread  over  Eleanor's  face.  Estella  sobbed 
aloud,  and  called  to  her  mother  in  imploring  tones, 
but  won  no  answering  word  or  look.  The  present 
was  dead  to  Eleanor ;  so,  too,  was  the  nearer  past ; 
but  the  spirit  on  its  flight  to  the  future  made  one 


346  ROGER  HUNT. 

swift  backward  swoop  to  the  years  that  were  gone. 
Child  and  husband  had  passed  from  sight ;  Eleanor 
was  dreaming  of  her  lover  again. 

"We  love  each  other  so,"  came  in  faintest  ac- 
cents from  her  lips.  "Roger  needs  me.  It  can- 
not be  wrong  —  when  he  needs  me  so."  The  words 
died  on  her  lips,  the  head  fell  gently  forward,  — 
she  was  dead.  The  love  that  had  been  the  su- 
preme motive  of  her  life,  caught  and  held  her 
again,  at  the  last ;  less  to  prove  its  worth  than  its 
truth;  yet  there  was  one  to  whom,  even  here,  it 
failed  to  justify  itself. 

Who  can  estimate  a  single  human  deed?  If 
suffering  can  atone  for  error,  then  Eleanor  had 
atoned !  If  a  gentle  and  trusting  heart,  misled 
by  its  own  needs,  and  the  holy  wish  to  serve  an- 
other, waking  too  late  to  its  own  mistake,  yet  hum- 
bly placing  blame  only  on  itself,  is  worth  anything 
in  this  world,  then  Eleanor's  story  has  been  worth 
the  telling. 

Mrs.  Somers  stood  long  by  the  narrow  coffin. 
The  face  was  not  wholly  peaceful,  as  Death  so 
often  leaves  it.  A  slight  expression  of  care  and 
painful  thought  remained ;  yet  there  was  in  it  such 
a  look  of  suffering  sweetness,  such  wells  of  tender- 
ness seemed  covered  by  those  closed  lids,  that  its 
look  was  none  the  less  one  of  benediction. 

"She  loved  much!  "  were  the  words  in  which  the 
living  woman  summed  up  her  thoughts ;  and  others 
from  the  same  sacred  source  came  floating  across 
her  memory :  "  A  broken  and  a  contrite  heart,  O 
Lord,  thou  wilt  not  despise!  " 


XXII. 

MR.  and  Mrs.  Clarke  sat  at  breakfast  in  their 
sumptuously  appointed  dining-room,  the  second 
morning  after  Eleanor's  death.  This  was  the  day 
of  the  funeral,  and  Mrs.  Clarke  informed  her  hus- 
band that  he  must  accompany  herself  and  Nina; 
the  occasion  being  one  that  demanded  the  presence 
of  the  entire  family. 

"I  didn't  know  anybody  but  women  ever  went 
to  funerals,"  he  grumbled. 

"It's  time  the  men  began  to  observe  a  few  of 
the  proprieties.  Of  course  you  must  go.  They 
are  our  nearest  neighbors." 

"  I '  ve  got  an  appointment  with  a  man  from 
Denver  at  eleven  o'clock.  It 's  a  cool  thousand 
out  of  my  pocket  if  I  don't  meet  it." 

"I  thought  it  was  about  time  that  man  from 
Denver  was  making  his  appearance,"  she  replied 
ironically. 

"He's  here  this  time,  for  certain.  Why  can't 
you  and  Nina  go  without  me?"  A  servant  en- 
tered from  the  kitchen  with  a  plate  of  hot  cakes, 
and  his  wife  looked  at  him  warningly.  At  the 
same  time  Nina,  who  was  late,  came  into  the  room 
from  the  opposite  side,  and  took  her  place,  list- 
lessly, at  the  table.  She  looked  as  if  she  had  not 
slept  well. 


348  ROGER  HUNT. 

"Hello,  Nina!"  her  father  addressed  her,  jo- 
cosely. "This  is  the  third  time  you  've  been  late 
to  breakfast  this  week.  You  're  getting  on  first- 
rate.  Pretty  soon  you  '11  be  as  high-toned  as  any- 
body. I  noticed  yon  didn't  have  any  trouble  get- 
tin'  down  to  breakfast  when  young  Norris  was 
here.  That 's  the  way  with  you  girls.  There 
was  your  mother,  now,  before  we  were  married, 
she  was  as  sweet  and  polite  as  honey.  She  never 
corrected  my  bad  grammar  then  "  — 

"Thomas!  "  exclaimed  his  wife  in  her  severest 
tone. 

He  leaned  back  in  his  chair,  and  drew  out  his 
watch.  "Well,  it 's  time  I  was  off,"  he  said,  but 
weakened  again,  when  he  caught  his  partner's  eye. 

"There's  this  much  about  it,"  he  added  in  an 
injured  tone.  "When  you  and  Nina  get  off  to 
Europe,  then  I  can  do  as  I  like  "  — 

"To  Europe !  "  exclaimed  Nina.  "Are  we  going 
to  Europe,  really,  mamma?  Do  let  us  go!  " 

"I  didn't  know  as  you  would  care  about  it." 

"I  do  care  about  it.  I  should  like  to  go  right 
away." 

Nina  Clarke  was  still  in  a  tumultuous  mental 
state.  She  had  been  longing  for  the  past  few 
days  to  get  away  from  her  present  surroundings, 
to  go  far  from  home,  where  she  could  think  things 
over  quietly,  could  still  importunate  thoughts  that 
kept  rising  against  her  will,  and  allay  the  fever  in 
her  veins.  Her  mother  had  kept  her  plans  quietly 
to  herself  until  now.  Europe  seemed  to  Nina  a 
heaven-sent  boon  and  means  of  escape. 


EOGER  HUNT.  349 

"Well,  your  mother  can't  start  this  morning," 
said  her  father.  "She  's  in  the  undertaking  busi- 
ness just  now;  she  's  got  this  funeral  on  her 
hands."  He  looked  in  vain  for  a  sign  of  encour- 
agement from  his  daughter  to  this  kind  of  fun- 
making,  then  cast  his  eyes  helplessly  towards  the 
servant-maid,  who  had  again  entered  the  room  to 
bring  Nina  a  warm  plate,  and  now  beat  a  precipi- 
tate retreat  back  to  the  kitchen. 

"Thomas!  "  said  his  wife  reprovingly.  "I  do 
wish  you  would  be  careful  how  you  speak  before 
the  servants." 

"Why,  then,  are  they  always  around  ?"  he  asked 
complainingly.  Thomas  Clarke  liked  his  estate  of 
social  leadership  very  much,  but  he  found  some  of 
its  details  wearisome.  He  missed  the  simpler  ways 
of  their  early  married  life,  when  they  ate  their 
meals  in  unattended  privacy,  and  his  wife  handed 
him  his  cup  of  coffee  across  the  table,  receiving 
a  plate  of  meat  and  vegetables  in  return.  Mrs. 
Clarke  pressed  her  foot  on  a  button  and  summoned 
the  maid  again. 

"Tell  Peter  we  shall  want  the  carriage  at  ten." 
The  maid  responded  with  a  respectful,  "Yes, 
ma'am,"  and  went  out. 

"A  carriage  to  go  a  block  and  a  half.!  "  ex- 
claimed her  husband. 

"It  is  for  the  cemetery,"  she  explained. 

He  drew  himself  up.  "Now,  see  here!  I 
draw  the  line  somewheres.  I  ain't  a-goiii'  to  no 
cemet'ry." 


350  ROGER  HUNT. 

She  looked  at  him  thoughtfully  a  minute. 

"Well,  I  don't  know  as  it  will  be  necessary," 
she  replied  in  a  conciliatory  tone.  "Perhaps  it 
will  do  if  Nina  and  I  go  there." 

"It  will  have  to  do,"  he  said,  feeling  himself 
grow  stronger  as  the  opposition  weakened.  "I 
don't  see  why  you  can't  go  to  the  funeral  without 
me,  too,"  he  added,  with  the  same  discontent  as 
before. 

"  Thomas,  I  am  ashamed  of  you !  When  we  are 
under  such  obligations  to  Professor  Hunt!  " 

"Why  didn't  you  tell  me  it  was  the  professor's 
funeral?"  he  asked,  with  pretended  accession  of 
interest.  Nina  rose  and  left  the  table.  His  wife 
looked  at  him  more  severely  than  before. 

"I'd  naturally  feel  more  interest,  wouldn't  I, 
if  it  was  somebody's  funeral  I  knew,"  he  said  de- 
fensively. "I  never  saw  Mrs.  Hunt  in  my  life." 

There  were  many  others  in  Garrison  who  were 
saying  the  same ;  but  though  Eleanor  was  so  lit- 
tle known,  personally,  her  long  illness,  the  se- 
cluded life  it  had  necessitated,  and  her  husband's 
reputation  as  a  writer  and  man  of  gifts,  combined  to 
surround  her  image  with  something  like  romance. 
People  who  had  never  caught  a  glimpse  of  her 
spoke  of  her  in  hushed  and  reverent  tones.  The 
impression  deepened  that  here  had  been  a  life  of 
self-abnegating  sweetness,  of  hidden  trial  and  con- 
quest, too  little  noted  when  among  them. 

After  the  funeral,  Mrs.  Clarke  called  on  her 
neighbor,  taking  Nina  with  her.  The  former  gave 


EOGEB  HUNT.  351 

most  of  her  attention  to  Mrs.  Somers,  near  whom 
sat  Estella.  Roger  and  Nina  sat  a  little  apart, 
but  though  his  face  was  turned  in  her  direction, 
and  he  kept  his  eyes  on  her,  she  detected  signs  of 
absent-mindedness.  Twice  when  she  asked  him  a 
question  he  failed  to  reply,  and  she  saw  he  was 
listening  to  what  Mrs.  Somers  was  saying  to  her 
mother.  When  she  told  him  she  was  going  abroad, 
he  had  only  smiled  and  wished  her  a  pleasant  voy- 
age. At  parting  he  seemed  not  to  remember  that 
he  was  not  likely  to  see  her  again,  unless  he  took 
pains  to  do  so;  and  she  had  a  heart-sick  feeling 
when  she  left  him  that  he  would  not  do  this.  She 
had  been  so  long  accustomed  to  consider  herself 
preeminent  in  his  thoughts,  necessary  to  him,  that 
she  was  deeply  hurt  and  puzzled  now.  It  would 
be  long  before  she  could  understand  of  how  light 
and  passing  a  nature  the  relation  now  ending  had 
been  to  him;  but  it  was  fortunate  that  her  last 
feeling  about  him  should  be  mixed  with  one  of 
self-injury.  She  tried  to  excuse  him  in  her 
thoughts,  but  the  hurt  feeling  remained,  and  even 
then  was  beginning  to  work  a  cure  deeper  than  its 
own. 

Mrs.  Clarke  carried  her  neighborly  attentions  to 
the  extent  of  asking  Mrs.  Somers  to  drive.  The 
conversation  naturally  turned  upon  Roger  Hunt. 

"You  knew  him  when  he  was  young?"  Mrs. 
Clarke  inquired. 

Mrs.  Somers  said  yes. 

"We  think  a  great  deal  of    him  in  Garrison. 


352  EOGER  HUNT. 

To  be  sure,  he  is  not  very  social,  and  some  people 
are  a  little  prejudiced  against  him,  on  account  of 
his  radical  views,  you  know,  but  it  will  be  a  loss 
to  the  place  if  he  goes  away." 

Her  listener  said  Mr.  Hunt  was  a  man  of  many 
accomplishments. 

"I  shall  always  feel  under  the  greatest  obliga- 
tions to  him  for  what  he  has  done  for  Nina.  She 
studied  with  him,  you  know." 

No,  Mrs.  Somers  did  n't  know.  She  would  not 
have  supposed  Mr.  Hunt  would  like  teaching. 

"I  don't  think  he  does,  but  of  course  it  was 
different  with  Nina.  We  are  such  near  friends. 
Did  you  know  his  wife  too?" 

Mrs.  Somers  did  not  ask,  "Which  wife?  " 

"How  fortunate  that  he  should  have  run  across 
you  at  Monroe.  It  is  so  good  in  YOU  to  take 
charge  of  Estella." 

"I  am  very  fond  of  Estella,"  was  the  reply. 
Mrs.  Clarke  remembered  then  that  her  compan- 
ion was  a  widow.  She  wondered  if  —  but  such 
thoughts  were  unbecoming.  In  harmless  ineffec- 
tive talk  of  this  kind  the  drive  came  to  an  end. 
Mrs.  Clarke  would  have  been  righteously  indig- 
nant had  she  known  how  near  she  had  been,  twice, 
or  rather  how  far,  from  making  discoveries  she 
would  have  claimed  she  had  a  right  to  know ;  but 
in  Mrs.  Somers,  as  with  her  brother,  she  had  met 
one  who  had  a  strong  instinctive  dislike  of  hurting 
any  one,  and  felt  its  reactive  indignity  as  well. 
Mrs.  Somers  did  not  shrink  sometimes  from  of- 


ROGER  HUNT.  353 

fending  and  even  hurting  her  friends  in  her  own 
person.  She  let  them  see  plainly,  when  she  thought 
it  necessary,  what  she  thought  of  them,  but  she 
could  not  harm  them  otherwise.  Thus  Roger  Hunt 
escaped  unhurt  a  second  time. 

Deeply  as  Estella  had  loved  her  mother,  sincere 
and  complete  as  had  been  her  final  surrender  to 
that  love,  loyal  as  she  meant  to  be  to  it  still,  it  was 
impossible  that  a  deeper  loss  than  Death's,  which 
no  grave  could  cover,  and  which  needed  no  carved 
tombstone  to  repair  the  memory  of,  should  not 
be  uppermost  in  her  thoughts.  To  Mrs.  Somers 
it  seemed  providential  that  since  Eleanor  must  die, 
she  should  have  died  at  this  time.  Estella  could 
never  judge  her  mother,  dead,  as  she  might  have 
judged  her  living.  In  a  vague,  unsatisfied  way 
she  saw  that  her  mother  had  suffered  more  than 
she  had  sinned;  but  she  did  not  yet  see  how  suf- 
fering atoned  for  sin,  still  less  how  it  removed  the 
results  from  those  who  were  innocent.  Mrs.  Som- 
ers's  answer  had  not  contented  her  here. 

Estella  had  cause  enough  for  unhappiness,  but 
the  most  real  grief  brings  some  opportunity  for 
self-indulgence.  There  is  an  element  of  the  facti- 
tious even  in  the  sharpest  suffering;  the  melan- 
choly egotism  of  the  unhappy  is  an  indisputable 
fact.  This  is,  perhaps,  because  the  power  to  suf- 
fer affects  us  like  any  other  form  of  discovered 
strength,  and  increases  self-love.  It  seems  to  set 
us  apart  from  others,  to  remove  us  from  common- 


354  ROGER  HUNT. 

place  levels,  and  to  make  a  distinct  personality 
of  us  for  the  first  time.  This  is  why  too  great 
indulgence  in  grief  is  as  fatal  to  character  as  any 
other  form  of  indulgence,  vitiating  judgment,  let- 
ting imagination  rule  in  reason's  place,  making 
true  feeling  the  cause  of  selfish  and  weak-minded 
display. 

Mrs.  Somers  kept  a  watchful  eye  on  her  young 
charge,  and  read  all  her  thoughts.  There  was 
another,  more  slight  but  real,  cause  of  suffering 
here,  which  she  had  foreseen.  Eleanor's  last  words 
to  her  daughter,  "Love  your  father,  Estella;  take 
care  of  him,"  had  returned  to  the  daughter  again 
and  again,  their  import  darkened  by  the  remem- 
brance they  aroused  that  her  father  was  her  father. 

The  dying  should  pay  more  heed  to  these  last 
words  of  theirs  which  impose  heavy  penalties 
sometimes!  These  to  Estella,  when  she  recalled 
them,  seemed  to  shut  her  within  prison  doors. 
Her  lot  in  life  was  fixed.  She  must  give  the 
years  to  come  to  one  who  would  not  care  for  the 
gift.  Her  mother  had  not  stopped  to  think  of 
that;  she  had  thought  only  of  her  father.  She 
wished  to  make  her  own  supreme  object  in  life 
her  daughter's  as  well,  the  latter  reflected  with 
some  bitterness.  But  what  did  it  matter  ?  What 
did  anything  matter  —  whether  she  studied  any 
more  or  not,  was  ignorant  or  learned,  loved  or 
despised?  Love  could  only  mean  pity  for  such  as 
she.  She  was  a  disgraced  creature,  about  whom 
the  truth  must  not  be  spoken,  who  must  go  through 


ROGER  HUNT.  355 

life  in  daily  expectation  of  meeting  some  new  sign 
of  scorn  or  distrust  in  others.  The  thought  grew 
intolerable. 

Mrs.  Somers  sympathized  keenly  with  the  young 
girl,  and  admitted  the  sincerity  of  her  suffering, 
but  she  neither  despaired,  nor  bestowed  false  sym- 
pathy on  her.  She  had  often  been  blamed  for 
failing  sensibility  in  matters  of  this  kind.  She 
declined  to  wear  her  heart  on  her  sleeve,  while 
years'  exercise  of  the  faculties  resident  in  another 
place,  the  head,  gave  her  an  increasing  respect  for 
that  organ.  She  knew  women  enough,  who,  in 
her  place,  would  have  done  nothing  but  mourn  and 
sentimentalize  over  Estella,  weighting  her  spirits 
still  more  with  the  load  of  their  own  depressed 
fears  and  forebodings,  who  would  have  succumbed 
at  once  to  the  child's  callow  judgment  that  her  lot 
must  be  separate  and  distinct  from  that  of  other 
girls,  that  most  of  life's  opportunities  were  closed 
to  her,  that  she  must  spend  her  days  in  trying  to 
retrieve  the  errors  of  others;  a  duty  not  the  less 
imperative  that  it  promised  to  achieve  nothing. 

They  would  have  told  Estella  that  though  the  sin 
was  not  hers,  she  must  sit  always  in  its  shadow; 
that  to  refuse  to  do  this  would  be  an  act  of  rebel- 
lion against  heaven  —  and  society.  They  would 
tell  her  she  must  not  hope  to  escape  the  bonds  of 
heritage  and  circumstance,  that  people  do  not  make 
their  own  lives,  but  must  be  content  to  walk  in  the 
paths  prescribed  by  Providence  and  human  con- 
vention. There  was  science  as  well  as  piety  in 


356  ROGER  HUNT. 

these  conclusions,  and  theoretically,  Mrs.  Somers 
held  to  most  of  these  prescribed  opinions  of  the 
good  and  the  fortunate,  but  she  reserved  the  right 
of  application. 

The  first  thing  to  do,  she  argued,  was  to  get 
Estella  back  to  school  and  at  work,  even  though 
the  year  was  so  near  the  close.  She  wished  to  do 
the  nearest,  most  natural  thing,  first.  It  was  a 
general  principle  with  her  that  it  is  not  necessary 
to  reconstruct  the  universe  before  sweeping  your 
front  steps.  More  opportunities  than  were  needed 
were  likely  to  present  themselves,  with  a  nature 
like  Estella' s  to  deal  with,  to  talk  over  her  affairs 
and  make  an  abstract  settlement  of  the  case  in  hand. 
In  the  mean  time,  half  the  difficulty  was  met  and 
conquered  by  proceeding  as  if  nothing  had  hap- 
pened that  need  essentially  to  change  Estella's 
prospects  or  future  duties.  The  third  day  after 
the  funeral,  she  told  Estella  that  they  had  better 
prepare  to  return  the  next  afternoon. 

"I  am  not  going  back  to  Monroe,"  said  Estella. 

"Indeed!     How  is  that?" 

"I  must  stay  with  my  father."  She  spoke  with 
downcast  face,  not  meeting  her  friend's  eye. 

"Your  father  is  going  away." 

"It  makes  no  difference.  I  cannot  leave  him. 
You  —  you  heard  what  mamma  said,"  her  voice 
breaking. 

"You  give  her  words  a  meaning  she  never  in- 
tended, I  am  sure.  Your  father  would  not  wish  it 
either,  I  believe.  Have  you  spoken  with  him?" 


ROGER  HUNT.  357 

Estella  said  no.  "Why  should  she  not  have 
meant  them?"  she  broke  out.  "She  put  him  first 
in  everything,  as  now  I  must  do.  But  he  will  not 
care ;  he  will  not  care  for  anything  I  can  do,  any 
more  than,  he  cared  "  — 

"Estella!"  The  girl  dropped  her  face  in  her 
hands,  and  began  to  weep.  Mrs.  Somers  waited 
a  minute,  then  drew  a  chair  and  sat  down  beside 
her. 

"Estella,  I  wish  to  speak  with  you.  You  are 
not  in  a  condition  to  see  anything  pertaining  to 
yourself  in  the  right  light  :  you  must,  therefore, 
let  others  see  and  think  for  you.  I  am  sure  your 
mother  did  not  mean  you  were  to  give  up  your 
work,  and  not  return  to  your  place  in  school " 

"I  cannot  go  back,  Mrs.  Somers,  I  cannot  go 
back." 

"My  dear  child,  what  do  you  expect  to  gain  by 
staying  here?" 

"  I  shall  be  by  myself ;  I  shall  not  have  to  meet 
strangers,  people  who  would  despise  me  " 

"When  you  are  as  old  as  I  am,  Estella,  you 
will  know  that  we  are  our  own  worst  and  most 
dangerous  society  when  we  are  in  trouble.  And 
as  for  people  despising  you,  people  will  have  just 
that  opinion  of  you  which  your  own  character  and 
behavior  warrant,  no  other.  See  now, "taking  the 
grief-worn  face  in  her  hands  and  turning  it  to- 
wards her,  "  I  have  known  all  about  you  from  the 
first,  and  do  I  despise  you?  "  smiling  at  her  ten- 
derly. 


358  ROGER  HUNT. 

"You  care  for  me  only  because  you  are  sorry  for 
me,"  the  girl  replied,  turning  her  eyes  obstinately 
away. 

"You  don't  believe  that  when  you  say  it,"  said 
the  other,  with  a  touch  of  rebuke. 

"Oh,  no  —  no,"  leaning  forward  and  throwing 
herself  in  her  friend's  arms.  "You  are  good,  but 
others  are  not  like  you.  Forgive  me,  but  I  am  so 
miserable,  I  cannot  bear  to  live.  No  girl  was 
ever  so  wretched  as  I  am." 

"There,  Estella,  let  us  stop  right  there.  You 
are  unhappy,  and  you  have  cause  for  unhappiness. 
Let  us  admit  that;  but  don't  try  to  measure  your 
grief  with  other  people's,  nor  with  what  may  come 
to  you  in  the  future.  Wait  until  the  cause  of 
your  trouble  lies  in  some  wrong  action  of  your 
own.  Come,  now,  suppose  it  was  only  some  phys- 
ical disease  you  were  suffering  from,"  going  back 
to  a  style  of  reasoning  she  had  employed  before. 
"Suppose  you  had  been  very  ill,  and  were  too 
weak  to  walk,  and  I  wanted  to  wheel  you  out 
into  the  sunshine.  Would  you  refuse  to  let  me, 
dear?"  Her  listener  was  silent,  still  keeping  her 
face  hidden. 

"I  don't  say  I  'm  going  to  bring  back  your  old 
happiness;  the  old  happiness  never  comes  back. 
I  do  not  ask  you  to  believe  anything  I  say  about 
yourself  or  any  new  happiness  in  the  future ;  I  only 
ask  you  to  trust  me." 

With  words  like  these  the  girl  was  won  back  to 
confidence.  Her  stormy  emotions  were  quieted  for 


ROGER  HUNT.  359 

a  time,  at  least,  and  she  received  the  further  sug- 
gestions Mrs.  Somers  made  with  passive  quiet. 

"But  you  must  speak  to  papa,"  Estella  said. 

"My  dear,  you  are  the  one  to  do  that."  It  then 
occurred  to  Mrs.  Somers  that  they  had  been  taking 
a  good  deal  for  granted. 

"No  —  no,"  said  Estella,  in  a  voice  and  manner 
that  threatened  another  breakdown,  "  I  cannot  talk 
with  him.  Do  not  ask  me,"  and  Mrs.  Somers, 
though  she  disliked  it  much,  made  her  way  to  the 
study. 

Roger's  bearing  toward  her  the  past  three  days 
had  been  one  of  stiff  politeness,  nothing  more,  and 
the  had  not  before  spoken  with  him  alone.  She 
dreaded  a  renewal  of  old  conflicts,  and  wished  to 
make  the  interview  as  short  as  possible;  stating 
her  errand  at  once  and  declining  the  chair  he  of- 
fered her.  She  told  him  she  must  return  the  next 
day,  and  expressed  the  hope  that  Estella  would 
accompany  her.  He  listened  with  impassive  face 
and  eyes  bent  to  the  floor. 

"Estella  will  return  to  her  school,  soon,  of 
course."  She  did  not  seem  to  notice  the  mental 
reservation  implied  here. 

"I  was  sure  that  must  be  your  wish." 

"  Do  you  mean  that  Estella  is  unwilling  to  go 
back?  "  he  asked,  catching  an  unexpressed  mean- 
ing in  her  words. 

"Naturally  she  looks  upon  her  return  with  some 
dread." 

"Why?" 


360  ROGER  HUNT. 

She  recognized  the  tone,  and  not  wishing  to  be 
caught  in  any  more  wordy  combats,  shifted  her 
ground. 

"She  construes  something  her  mother  said  into 
a  wish,  on  her  part,  that  she  should  remain  with 
you."  He  thought  of  this  a  moment;  Mrs.  Som- 
ers  doubted  if  he  recalled  Eleanor's  words. 

"Estella  is  to  go  with  me  then?"  she  asked 
again,  as  he  kept  silent.  He  looked  at  her  signifi- 
cantly. 

"  How  can  you  expect  me  to  place  my  daughter 
in  the  hands  of  my  enemy?"  He  pronounced  the 
words  "my  enemy  "  as  if  he  were  some  high  digni- 
tary of  state. 

"I  am  not  your  enemy,  Roger." 

"Are  you  my  friend?"    She  hesitated. 

"  Probably  not,  in  your  sense  of  the  term.  Cer- 
tainly I  am  not  your  flatterer." 

"  I  do  not  seek  flattery  from  my  friends;  I  seek 
only  their  confidence." 

"It  is  their  misfortune  when  they  cannot  give 
it." 

"Indeed,  I  quite  agree  with  you  there,"  lifting 
his  head.  "I  would  rather  be  misjudged  than  to 
misjudge  others." 

"So  would  I,"  she  replied,  leaving  the  applica- 
tion to  fall  where  it  might. 

"It  should  be  taken  as  a  proof  of  some  clem- 
ency and  patience  on  my  part,  I  think,  if,  after 
what  has  passed  between  us,  I  consent  to  leave 
Estella  in  your  care." 


ROGER  HUNT.  361 

"  From  your  point  of  view,  yes ;  I  am  willing  to 
admit  that." 

"  Very  well !  And  what,  may  I  ask,  is  to  be  my 
relation  to  the  household  of  which  my  daughter  is 
a  member?" 

"As  Estella's  father,  you  will  receive  all  respect 
from  me  that  is  due  you." 

He  smiled  sarcastically.  Estella's  father !  His 
estate  was  reduced  indeed;  but  since  he  believed 
an  important  concession  had  been  made,  he  gave 
his  consent  to  her  wish,  and  the  interview  closed. 


XXIII. 

Two  days  after  the  departure  of  Mrs.  Somers 
and  Estella,  the  little  stone  cottage  was  closed,  and 
the  key  placed  in  the  hands  of  a  real-estate  agent, 
with  instructions  to  sell ;  while  Roger  went  west- 
ward to  carry  out  the  literary  enterprise  that  had 
been  assigned  him.  Mrs.  Clarke  and  Nina  left 
home  for  New  York  within  the  following  week,  the 
former  telling  her  friends  that  they  should  remain 
away  at  least  a  year.  Nina  was  to  acquire  the 
Parisian  accent  in  her  French,  and  to  profit  by 
other  advantages  of  a  foreign  tour.  Mr.  Clarke 
shut  up  the  house  and  took  rooms  in  the  hotel 
which  he  owned,  down  town;  the  neighborhood 
had  a  deserted  look. 

As  Mrs.  Somers  had  foreseen,  Estella's  life  after 
her  return  to  Monroe  was  varied  with  many  con- 
trtdictory  moods.  She  kept  a  careful  oversight  of 
the  girl,  but  not  of  a  small,  exacting  order,  letting 
her  fall  back  on  herself  at  times,  striving  to  culti- 
vate a  healthy  self-reliance,  and  to  keep  her  mind 
occupied  with  rational  objects  outside  itself. 

Roger  had  made  no  attempt  to  settle  the  future 
relation  of  his  two  children,  a  matter  concerning 
which  he  was  not  altogether  indifferent,  but  which 
he  felt  unequal  to.  Mrs.  Somers,  sensible  of  a  lit- 


ROGER  HUNT.  363 

tie  compunction  for  the  feelings  she  had  cherished 
against  young  Watson,  and  her  rather  careless 
treatment  of  him,  had  written  him  from  Garrison, 
giving  an  account  of  Eleanor's  death,  speaking  of 
her  own  and  Estella's  speedy  return,  and  counsel- 
ing him  to  remain  where  he  was.  Since  Estella 
had  now  full  knowledge  of  things  he  meant  to 
help  preserve  her  in  ignorance  of,  he  did  not  him- 
self see  why  he  should  upset  all  his  plans  and  seri- 
ously hinder  his  work  by  leaving  Monroe.  He  was 
glad  Mrs.  Somers's  romantic  demands  had  abated. 

The  first  meeting  between  brother  and  sister  was 
painful,  but  each  felt  the  need  of  the  other  too 
much  willingly  to  consent  to  lose  sight  of  each 
other,  or  even  to  forego  the  help  and  happiness 
that  were  promised  in  an  openly  acknowledged  re- 
lation. 

Rather  to  Mrs.  Somers's  consternation,  there- 
fore, these  two  young  people,  equally  serious  and 
conscientious,  inheriting,  too,  from  their  father, 
the  courage  that  could  meet  and  conquer  a  diffi- 
culty, resolved  to  let  the  relation  between  them 
be  known.  It  was  Estella  whose  wish  in  the  mat- 
ter was  most  anxious,  though  she  was  not  the  first 
to  express  it,  keeping  strict  guard  on  it,  instead; 
for  she  felt  that  hers  was  the  position  representing 
greatest  guilt  and  reproach,  that  it  was  not  for 
her  to  make  advances.  Her  brother  represented 
the  side  of  the  injured,  and  might  well  hesitate  to 
ally  himself,  even  thus  indirectly,  with  the  father 
who  had  forsaken  him.  To  Estella  this  reunion 


364  ROGER  HUNT. 

with  her  brother  stood  in  a  measure  for  a  degree 
of  reconcilement  with  her  father,  for,  remembering 
her  mother's  words,  she  would  not  have  entered 
into  any  bond  or  agreement  that  excluded  him. 
What  Watson  himself  thought  on  this  point  he  did 
not  say.  His  father -had  written  him  just  before 
leaving  home,  renewing  his  former  offer,  on  the 
same  conditions,  which  the  son,  in  a  brief  but  re- 
spectfully worded  reply,  had  again  declined.  For 
Estella's  sake,  though  she  knew  nothing  of  this 
affair,  he  would  avoid  a  quarrel,  but  he  could  ac- 
cept no  help  from  such  a  source.  Estella  could  not 
help  but  understand  this  feeling,  which  she  felt 
much  secret  sympathy  for,  but  nevertheless  some- 
times tried  to  overcome. 

"He  is  our  father,"  she  said  to  him  one  day. 
"We  have  to  remember  that,  and  he  has  always 
been  good  to  me.  I  —  I  can't  think  he  is  bad.  I 
don't  believe  Mrs.  Somers  thinks  so  either,  and 
she  knows  him  so  well,  though  they  do  not  seem  to 
be  friends  any  more.  People  do  such  wrong  things 
sometimes,  when  they  are  only  trying  to  do  the 
right  thing,"  and  she  sighed. 

She  had  been  brought  up  in  such  a  different 
atmosphere  from  her  brother  that  they  often  failed 
to  find  a  common  point  of  view  in  the  discussion 
of  their  problems.  Though  so  much  younger,  he 
caught  glimpses  of  mental  expanse  in  her,  the 
power  to  weigh  and  judge  a  question  on  its  own 
merits,  that  excited  both  his  admiration  and  alarm. 
His  own  mental  processes  seemed  stiff  and  cramped 


ROGER  HUNT.  365 

beside  hers,  but  he  still  distrusted  a  little  those 
freer  methods  which  inevitably  tended,  he  thought, 
towards  license.  He  listened  to  his  sister's  talk, 
at  once  so  unrestrained  and  thoughtful,  with  grave 
and  brooding  face ;  a  new  ideal  of  character  began 
slowly  to  rise  before  him,  as  unlike  that  which  his 
aunt  had  striven  to  realize  in  him  as  it  was  op- 
posed to  that  other,  so  different,  his  father  had 
tried  to  embody.  The  mental  currents  were  break- 
ing from  the  icy  fastnesses  of  social  prejudice  and 
distrust,  gaining  a  warmth  and  elasticity  never  felt 
before.  His  step  grew  firmer  and  more  buoyant. 
He  was  learning  to  hold  his  head  erect,  to  like  and 
trust  his  fellow-creatures. 

In  Estella,  womanly  tenderness,  bereft  of  its 
chief  objects  in  a  mother  dead  and  a  father  par- 
tially estranged,  had  found  something  new  to  ca- 
ress and  cling  to.  She  still  had  her  periods  of 
melancholy  introspection,  of  morbid  complaint 
against  fate.  The  old  sense  of  injury  would  return, 
shame  and  a  sudden  distaste  for  everything,  the 
revived  memory  of  lost  illusions  and  ideals.  She 
would  pass  days  in  this  dejected  state  of  mind,  but 
had  the  wisdom  at  such  times  to  keep  away  from 
her  brother,  or  at  least  to  hide  her  feeling  from 
him,  knowing  she  would  only  do  him  harm.  It 
was  Mrs.  Somers  who  was  made  the  sharer  of  these 
downcast  moods,  not  because  they  were  selfishly 
imposed  on  her,  —  but  because  she  had  learned  to 
read  signs  here,  as  well  as  those  that  prophesied  the 
weather.  Sometimes  she  let  the  mood  spend  itself, 


366  ROGER  HUNT. 

at  others  set  herself  to  work  to  coax,  laugh,  or 
reason  it  out  of  existence. 

One  day  when  she  and  Estella  were  walking 
along  the  street,  they  met  two  women  in  black 
habits,  each  with  a  long  swinging  rosary  by  her 
side.  They  belonged  to  a  cloistered  institution  on 
the  outskirts  of  the  town.  Estella  looked  at  them 
pensively. 

"How  pure  and  peaceful  their  faces  are,"  she 
said  to  her  companion. 

"They  are  very  weak  and  empty  faces,  I  think," 
was  the  reply. 

"How  can  you  say  that!  "  Estella  rejoined,  in  a 
reproving  tone.  "I  am  sure  they  are  very  good." 

"Oh,  I  dare  say  they  are  good  enough,"  lightly. 
"But  they  don't  look  as  if  they  ever  had  an  idea." 

"Ideas  do  not  always  bring  happiness,"  the  other 
said,  with  a  touch  of  youthful  wdsdom. 

"They  do  something  better;  they  teach  you  how 
to  get  along  without  it,"  but  the  young  have  little 
use  for  heroic  conclusions  of  this  kind. 

"Every  one  is  on  an  equality  with  them,"  said 
Estella,  pursuing  the  subject;  "the  poor  with  the 
rich,  the  unfortunate  with  the  fortunate." 

"I  don't  know  about  that.  It  is  the  business  of 
some  of  the  nuns  out  there  at  St.  Mary's  to  scrub 
the  floors,  and  of  others  to  sit  in  the  parlor  and 
entertain  visitors.  Human  nature  is  the  same, 
whether  you  find  it  in  a  convent,  or  a  dry  goods 
store." 

"They  do  not  care  if  they  do  have  to  work," 


ROGER  HUNT.  367 

said  Estella,  "it  is  part  of  their  religion.  They  go 
there  because  they  have  suffered,  and  wish  to  hide 
away  from  the  world." 

"They  go  there,  more  likely,  because  they  were 
picked  up  on  the  streets  when  they  were  little 
homeless  beggars,  have  been  brought  up  there,  and 
know  no  better."  Estella  was  silent  a  few  mo- 
ments ;  she  felt  sure  this  was  a  very  partial  state- 
ment of  the  case. 

"You  dislike  them,  I  suppose,  because  you  do 
not  believe  as  they  do.  You  are  a  free-thinker, 
like  papa."  The  words  were  spoken  quietly,  with 
no  thought  of  giving  offense,  but  Mrs.  Somers 
winced  and  changed  the  subject. 

The  last  days  of  the  school  year  passed  rapidly. 
When  the  term  closed  Charles  Watson  entered  a 
law-office,  for  preparatory  work  during  vacation  in 
the  profession  he  meant  to  enter.  Mrs.  Somers 
made  her  plans  for  a  summer  trip  through  New 
England,  where  she  was  to  visit  different  points  of 
interest,  and  describe  the  same  in  the  correspond- 
ence column  of  one  of  the  Chicago  dailies.  Estella 
obtained  permission  from  her  father  to  go  with  her, 
and  was  looking  forward,  with  a  young  eagerness 
which  no  contradictory  moods  or  dark  memories 
could  destroy,  to  her  first  long  journey.  They 
returned  to  Monroe  in  the  fall,  in  time  for  Estella 
to  enter  the  regular  course  in  the  university.  Mrs. 
Somers  will  take  a  house,  and  thus  provide  a  home 
for  the  brother  and  sister ;  the  former  will  hold  his 
position  as  assistant  a  year  longer. 


368  ROGER  HUNT. 

The  relation  between  brother  and  sister  was  now 
well  known,  though  it  had  been  explained  in  its 
full  details  to  no  one,  not  even  to  Mrs.  Black. 
There  is  still  a  little  mystery  attached  to  them  in 
the  popular  mind,  leading  to  romantic  speculation 
in  some  quarters,  wise  shaking  of  the  head  in  oth- 
ers, but  to  more  indifference  in  all ;  for  the  popular 
mind,  like  the  individual,  is  occupied  with  its  own 
affairs,  and  disappoints  alike  our  fears  and  our  ex- 
pectations by  the  measure  of  interest  it  takes  in 
ours.  The  world  went  on  much  the  same  when  it 
became  known  that  Estella  Hunt  was  Charles 
Watson's  half-sister;  and  when  Mrs.  Somers  saw 
that  the  university  walls  had  not  tumbled  down, 
nor  an  earthquake  opened  to  swallow  the  town, 
and  hide  its  moral  deformities,  she  breathed  more 
freely,  and  said  the  right  thing  had  been  done. 

The  brother,  as  well  as  the  sister,  is  coming  to 
regard  her  as  chief  counselor  and  friend.  Es- 
tella, loving  her  more  each  day,  grows  penitent 
from  time  to  time,  for  the  trouble  and  care  she 
gives,  the  small  repayment  she  seems  able  to  make 
for  the  continued  kindness  she  receives,  while 
Watson  deems  his  own  case  one  of  pure  and  un- 
mitigated charity,  so  that  Mrs.  Somers,  who  has 
learned  to  be  happy  without  entire  self-justifica- 
tion, is  more  content  than  either.  These  other 
two,  who  have  youth's  exaltation  of  purpose,  and 
who  for  many  years  to  come  will  live  in  the 
shadow  of  another's  misdoing,  will  be  longer  in 
learning  this. 


ROGER  HUNT.  369 

And  Roger  ?  The  series  of  essays  describing  his 
excursion  to  the  Pacific  coast  was  more  widely  read 
than  anything  he  had  before  written.  The  enter- 
prise took  him  forward  several  paces  in  that  liter- 
ary reputation  he  is  still  working  to  win.  Though 
he  has  not  yet  reached  a  very  high  round  on 
fame's  ladder,  he  has  secured  a  firm  foothold, 
with  added  strength  for  climbing.  It  is  no  small 
credit  to  him,  in  his  own  eyes,  nor  should  it  be  in 
others',  that  his  success,  so  far,  has  been  won  by 
no  meretricious  methods,  that  the  claim  to  schol- 
arship and  a  high  standard  of  work,  has  been 
strengthened  with  every  successive  effort.  He  is 
no  penny-a-liner,  nor  hack  workman,  who  employs 
his  talents  to  satisfy  the  modern  greed  for  the  sen- 
sational and  the  entertaining!  He  is  of  another 
species  and  cult  than  these  poor  worldlings !  While 
naturally  gratified  at  the  recognition  thus  far  re- 
ceived, had  he  not  reached  it,  he  would  have 
found  means  to  console  himself  in  his  disappoint- 
ment. He  would  have  remembered  Milton  and 
Keats,  and  possessed  his  soul  in  a  proud  patience. 
He  is  as  able  now  as  ever  to  stand  alone ;  and  by 
those  who  know  him  best  he  is  permitted  to  do  so. 
He  often  recalls,  with  pious  gratitude,  and  an  in- 
creased sense  of  desert,  that  twice  within  his  late 
career  he  has  been  seriously  menaced,  but  that  in 
both  cases  he  was  able  to  avert  the  danger  and  teach 
his  enemies  a  lesson.  He  is  convinced  that  neither 
Mortimer  Gray  nor  Kitty  Somers  is  likely  to  in- 
terfere in  his  affairs  again. 
' 


370  BOGEB  HUNT. 

He  thinks  of  the  wife  of  his  youth  as  a  hardened 
creature,  who  deliberately  planned  his  shame  and 
ruin ;  of  Eleanor  as  one  for  whom  he  sacrificed  all, 
but  who  was  able  to  give  him  in  return  almost 
nothing;  of  his  two  children,  whose  love  for  each 
other  seems  to  place  them  in  league  against  him- 
self, with  an  increasing  feeling  of  self -injury.  His 
friends  grow  fewer  as  he  grows  older,  but  that 
only  proves  how  hard  it  is  to  gain  friends  on  terms 
of  a  high  understanding.  Mrs.  Somers,  when  she 
saw  him  last,  during  a  flying  visit  he  paid  Estella 
on  his  way  to  the  East,  repeated  to  the  picture  on 
the  mantel  what  she  had  said  before,  that  he  did 
not  change  much.  He  never  will. 


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